


Into the Void

by tortuosity



Series: Every Storm a Serenade [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Term Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Romance, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: A sequel to "Songs of the Pirate Queen"Isabela and Hawke had every intention of enjoying a life beyond Kirkwall. A life beyond mages and templars, beyond war and catastrophe... until one letter from Ferelden drags them into everything they hoped to escape.An AU fix-it fic, because there's no way Isabela would let Hawke get into trouble without her. Follows Isabela past the events of DA2 and into DAI as she accompanies Hawke to Skyhold.  Rated for language, violence, and sexual depictions.





	1. Worldcrosser (9:38 Dragon)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is! I knew SotPQ would need a sequel not long after starting it, so it only seemed right to keep going! 
> 
> A lot of us were disappointed with Hawke's cameo in Inquisition. From their physical appearance to dialogue that potentially ignored the player's choices in DA2 to leaving their LI behind, a lot of it didn't quite feel right. Thus, I'm summoning the power of fanfiction to try and remedy that.
> 
> Like the previous work, this one will remain in Isabela's POV for the entire duration. The first three chapters will look similar to the larger, vignette-style chapters of SotPQ, as they cover what our duo has been up to from 9:38-9:40. After that, I anticipate a more traditional narrative style, not so much the self-contained chapters of SotPQ, but we'll see! The things I write always have a way of surprising me.
> 
> Lastly, I am writing this with the assumption that my readers will have read [Songs of the Pirate Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17621633). Hence, various characters and events (including canon-divergent events) from the first fic will be freely referenced without explanation. However, if you, for whatever reason, don't want to read the previous work, I think you'll still be able to understand most things.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy reading, because I have a feeling I'm going to have a blast writing.
> 
> **Content warnings for this chapter: alcohol use, graphic violence.** Also references (my) canon-divergent events from the "Those Who Speak" comic (explanation for the changes is in Chapter 6 of SotPQ)

**2 Drakonis, 9:38 Dragon**

Maybe it was the whiskey. Or the wine. Or both. Probably shouldn’t have gotten both. But their glasses were empty for the fifth—or possibly sixth, it was hard to say—time that night, and if Isabela was drunk, Hawke was well beyond three sheets to the wind. Perhaps that explained why she felt arm-wrestling a pirate captain would be a grand idea.

Granted, he started it. During Hawke and Isabela’s hazy, booze-soaked month in Wycome, Captain Glenn was a constant fixture at the Sullen Wench, their bar of choice, perched precariously atop his stool like a raven caught in a windstorm. Every night, he eyed the bar patrons, searching for worthy prey to battle. And every night, he would find someone, some newcomer rolling into Wycome for some fun, someone with veins full of liquid courage and a fervent desire to test their strength. 

Every night, Captain Glenn would demand an arm-wrestling match, typically for gold or a round of drinks, but sometimes for things more exotic. And he would always win. It was hard to tell under his shirt and duster, but he had forearms the size of Isabela’s thigh, the products of hauling sails for decades. Many men and the occasional woman had risen to the challenge. All had failed.

Glenn had tried to get Hawke and Isabela to take the bait all month. There were several nights where visitors to the Sullen Wench were few and far between, and Captain Glenn, desperate to keep his pockets lined with beer money, had eyed the two of them like a vulture with carrion until a more worthwhile rival eventually stumbled into the bar. But that night, the Sullen Wench was bereft of patrons, the month-long Wintersend party finally sputtering to a halt. Their compatriots in revelry chose to stay home and nurse hangovers instead of join them at a bar that made Wycome’s other holes in the wall seem grandiose by comparison.

Perhaps that was why Glenn was growing more and more frantic, the pile of money on their table rapidly increasing in size as he fished yet more coins from every pocket tucked away in his tattered black coat.

“Six gold, thirty-something silver, and… however many bits this is; I’ve lost track. You’re killing me, Hawke,” Glenn groaned, slumping in his chair.

“What kind of fool do you take me for?” Hawke said, swaying slightly, drunken grin never leaving her face. “I’ve shit more gold than this.”

“Remind me to steal your privy before you leave, then.” Glenn rubbed a weathered hand over the umber stubble darkening his cheeks. “What is it going to take for you to agree? I’ve seen those arms of yours. You’re strong.”

A cute attempt at flattery. Isabela hoped Hawke wouldn’t fall for it. She _was_ strong, that was true enough. Isabela was certainly intimately familiar with Hawke’s muscles, if the ability to pick her up and pin her against the wall was any indication. But Hawke wasn’t going to beat Glenn, even if he was drunk off his ass. There was no way. And then they’d be out the rest of their drinking money, and that just wouldn’t do.

“The only way I’m going to arm-wrestle you is if you give us your ship.” Hawke seemed to be trying valiantly to keep from slurring, but the end of her sentence still ran together like a muddy stream.

Glenn started laughing, a harsh guffaw reminiscent of a braying mule, until he realized she was serious. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, woman. Why would I ever bet my ship?”

“Because we want it,” Hawke declared, as if that was all the reason they needed (though, Isabela admitted, it usually was). “Isn’t that right, Admiral?”

Isabela squinted through bleary eyes at her now-empty glass. That would have to be remedied. She threw an arm around Hawke’s shoulders, pulling her over for a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, you can’t call me that unless you plan on leaving Glenn here and coming to bed with me,” Isabela told her. “You know it gets me all worked up.”

Glenn pushed the pile of coins around with his finger, mouth screwed up into a near pout. “If you want me to join your fleet on a bet, you better have something just as valuable for your end of the bargain.”

Bolstered by Wycome’s most potent whiskey, Hawke clambered to her feet and fumbled with the pouch tied to her belt. After several intense seconds of struggling, she let it fall to the table with a heavy, promising jingle.

“If you win, you get whatever’s in there, plus another thirty,” Hawke paused and reconsidered, “no, _fifty_ gold I’ve got stashed away.”

Isabela worked very, very hard to keep a straight face. Unless Hawke had a secret treasure chest, there were not fifty gold coins stashed away anywhere. Maybe ten. Maybe. She could only hope Glenn was too drunk and desperate to call Hawke’s bluff.

Thankfully, he appeared more intrigued than suspicious, hazel eyes glimmering with greed. “Well, that’s—”

But Hawke wasn’t done. “And you can join us. In _bed_,” she emphasized, like there was any other meaning. “For a night of unparalleled pleasure. If you’re okay with that, Bela, obviously,” she was quick to add, tossing a tipsy smile and a wink at Isabela.

Now she was absolutely bluffing. And drunk. Maker’s mercy, Hawke was thoroughly shitfaced. That was the only possible explanation for the idiocies tumbling from her mouth. Not that they hadn’t, on occasion, brought a guest to accompany them for the night, but, given Hawke’s preferences, always women. Definitely not anyone like Glenn.

Isabela shrugged. “I mean, it would be fine by me, but Captain Glenn is a man, as far as I know. A virile, manly man. Not your cup of tea, I assume.”

“First time for everything, right? Besides, I’m not planning on losing. I’m winning that ship for you.”

Foolish and adorable, that woman. In equal measure. And that adorable, foolish woman was going to lose all their money _and_ get herself in an awkward situation when it came time for pants to come off later that evening.

Isabela was not the sort of person anyone would count on to be a savior. Even when she was a girl, she never gave a fig about heroic knights rescuing damsels, the kinds of stories Hawke lived and breathed when she was a messy-haired, muddy-faced child traipsing about Ferelden. Isabela, on the other hand, wanted to be a dragon—soaring anywhere she wanted, roasting anyone she wanted, including fairytale knights and their princesses. But now was her chance. Maybe she wasn’t saving her damsel from a dragon, but she could save her from making a fool of herself, and that was probably just as important.

“Can’t you just call your mate in here and have him wrestle you?” she asked Glenn. That was, after all, a crucial part of being first mate: supporting the captain’s harebrained schemes and idiosyncrasies.

Hawke flopped her head onto Isabela’s shoulder. “You’re my mate,” she mumbled, barely able to get the words out through her giggles.

“Yes, love, I am. But I was referring to the nautical rank.”

Glenn waved her suggestion off like a pesky gnat. “I could, but I’ve already taken on every jack on my ship when we sailed here from Orlais. The magic is gone. But you, Hawke. You’re a mystery. I’ve seen you hauling kegs around. And I know you sail. Admiral here probably has you pulling lots of rope, I’ll bet.”

Isabela was starting to wonder if Glenn did, in fact, have some sort of fetish. Maybe she could convince Hawke, instead. Likely an impossible feat, given Hawke’s stubbornness. And inebriation.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, trying to keep Glenn from overhearing. “I won’t love you any less if you say no, promise.” 

Not one to be deterred from a fruitless challenge, Hawke looked Isabela dead in the eyes, her serious tone at odds with the smirk tugging at the left side of her mouth.

“I dueled the Arishok for your life,” she said. “I can get you a ship.”

Glenn seemed pleased with the display of bravado. “Well, that settles it. If you win, you get my ship and my services. If I win, I get your gold and… you’ll still get my services, won’t you?” He chuckled. “Not sure that seems fair, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosy.”

Standing up and placing a hand on the table for balance, Glenn looked around the bar for an audience. Finding none, he launched into his usual spiel, regardless.

“Esteemed patrons of the Sullen Wench! You are about to witness a thrilling feat of strength and endurance! I, Captain Glenn of the—”

“Give it a rest, Glenn! No one cares!” yelled the bartender, the eponymous Sullen Wench herself. Lynneth put up with his antics so long as he kept her coffers full, but there was a limit to her patience, and a month of Glenn was more than enough for anyone.

Glenn dropped back into his chair with a huff. “Fine. Alright, the rules, then. Elbow and non-wrestling hand on the table for the duration of the match, feet on the floor until the neutral party says go, conduct yourself with pride and decorum at all times.”

He shrugged off his duster and draped it over the back of his chair. And there were those arms, like pythons after a feeding, covered in a pelt of coarse brown hair from elbow to knuckles. Though his forearms were free of ink, Isabela had once caught sight of the Felicísima Armada’s blindfolded skull across his right bicep, a small patch of black and red on a massive swell of muscle. He was ridiculous, true enough, but he could prove a valuable ally.

“Lynneth!” Glenn barked. “We go on your signal!”

Lynneth pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Maker take me.” She glanced at Isabela. “Are all pirates this mad?”

“Do you think we’d turn to piracy if we had a sane bone in our bodies?” Isabela replied. “Would you mind pouring me another glass of wine? If I’m drunk enough, maybe this’ll be easier to take.”

Isabela took her wine and leaned against the bar, staring at the back of Hawke’s head. She couldn’t bear to see her face if she lost. _When_ she lost, rather. Better to keep a pessimistic outlook. Over Hawke’s shoulder, Glenn set his elbow on the table, fingers wiggling in anticipation.

They clasped hands, and in the breath before Lynneth said “Go,” Isabela’s sodden brain went through a dozen painful contortions as she tried to figure out how to help Hawke pull this off. There had to be a way. She was a master manipulator, a cunning schemer. A dirty cheat, really, if her friends and enemies were to be believed. There had to be something…

Lynneth gave the signal, and every line, every curve in Hawke’s body went taut, her right arm flexed hard against Glenn’s, resisting his attempt to overpower her from the jump. There was the briefest hint of surprise widening Glenn’s eyes and dampening his smile, but it left as quickly as it came, replaced by sheer glee. He backed off, assessing her strength, how much of a threat she actually posed, then pressed the attack, his hand a stone claw around Hawke’s.

Seconds ticked by. Hawke gave a valiant effort, but Isabela could see her shoulder trembling, her forearm inching closer to the table. She was doomed.

So Isabela, in all her drunken wisdom, did the only thing that made sense. She grabbed the hem of her shirt with her free hand and lifted it up towards her chin.

For a moment, Glenn appeared so focused on the match Isabela worried he would have Hawke defeated before noticing the breasts in front of his face. But notice them he did, and his concentration faltered long enough for Hawke to make her comeback. With a whoop of victory, she slammed the back of his hand into the table, a satisfying thud that seemed to echo across the bar.

Isabela quickly tugged her shirt back down as Glenn furiously gesticulated in her direction, sputtering with indignant rage at her flagrant disregard for the sacred rules of arm-wrestling.

“You cheat! Distractions aren’t allowed!” he stammered, staring at his hand still pressed to the table as though it did not belong to his body, a traitorous limb.

Lynneth rolled an empty tumbler around in her hands, inspecting it far more thoroughly than it deserved. “I didn’t see anything distracting,” she declared. “Nobody likes a sore loser, Glenn. Be gracious in defeat.”

Isabela raised her glass in agreement. “Now, now, being a part of my fleet isn’t such a raw deal,” she said. “I pay well, manage risk, and trust my captains to handle their own ships. You’ll have a lovely time.”

“It’s not about losing the bet,” Glenn argued, shaking his head. “Honestly, I was already thinking of asking to join before you set out. It’s the principle of the thing! You can’t just…” He gestured in a circular motion towards her chest, “Display your bosoms when a man is in the middle of an epic struggle.”

Hawke turned in her seat, all mock-anger. “Is that so? Did you display your bosoms during our epic struggle?”

“I would never! And even if I did, we’re in Wycome. You can poke your head outside right now and likely see half a dozen women flashing their tits. It’s not worth crying over.”

“Bah. I’m not crying. You see any tears? So what’s the process to join up? Tattoo? Blood pact? Get jumped by a bunch of Rivaini?”

“No, nothing like that. If you want to say anything, go ahead. Otherwise, just a handshake will do.”

She suspected Glenn was a man who put far more stock into words and ceremony than most pirates, and he proved her right after a few seconds of deliberation. 

Scratching the back of his neck, he muttered, “Well, not saying anything wouldn’t feel right, so... “ 

Glenn drew his rigging knife from its sheath on his belt. Isabela followed suit. They crossed the blades, hers over his, as he spoke.

“As your brother in the life, I agree to share both risk and reward in the pursuit of our prey. You are my captain, and my men and I follow your command. May our hunts be profitable and our bond true. And woe betide our enemies.”

Dramatic, perhaps, but those “in the life” of piracy often were, and it was the sort of vow Isabela could get behind.

“Aye. The life or the knife for us bloody bastards of the sea.” She sheathed her knife and took his hand. “Welcome to the fleet, Captain.”

* * *

**18 Cloudreach, 9:38 Dragon**

_“You can’t run your pirate fleet out of the inn!”_

The innkeep at the Full and By told her this, scolded her the way one scolds a dog rolling in muck, but the words didn’t match the message. It wasn’t that Isabela couldn’t use the inn for piracy purposes. It was, after all, Llomerryn. If an islander wasn’t a pirate themselves, they were working with one, whether they wanted to or not. No, the issue was the sheer quantity of communication required to run a fleet. There simply wasn’t enough room for all of it.

_“Can you at least pick up your mail more often than once every other month?”_

Absolutely not. She had an entire world to show her woman; Isabela wasn’t going to waste time pissing around with letters every day. It wasn’t her fault she was so popular.

And maybe she underestimated just how much correspondence went into being an admiral. As a captain, everything was local. A ship was small. A loud enough yell and she could get an order out to everyone on board. If she needed more hands, she could go to whichever port was closest and ask around the bars until she found what she needed. 

But an admiral didn’t have that luxury. She only had six ships to her name besides her own Second Chance, but they ranged from Minrathous to Val Royeaux, and parchment and ink were her only means of communication with them unless they happened to dock with her in the same city at the same time. And for every man on the water, she needed another on land. A network. Similar to what she had in Kirkwall, but now the search was broader, a lake instead of a stream. Instead of looking for an object, her informants looked for opportunities. Which merchant went too light on security. Who had a vendetta and was willing pay for it. Who needed goods and who—conveniently—happened to have those goods and wouldn’t mind too terribly if they found a new home.

She had contacts and couriers, dealers and dispatchers, sailors and sellers and spies.

But mostly, she just had a shitton of mail.

This time, however, it wasn’t all business.

“Oh, looks like we’ve got a letter from Lady Manhands herself!” Isabela said, breaking open the red wax seal stamped with the Kirkwall City Guard’s insignia.

“About time,” Hawke said, taking a seat next to her. “I was worried Kirkwall had done her in.”

“Aveline? No way. It would take far more than the most cursed city in all of Thedas to kill that woman.”

Isabela unfolded the parchment. The entire letter took up less than one page, as terse as its writer. Aveline’s handwriting was crisp yet congested, as though she gripped the quill too hard, as if writing was some unfortunate chore she had to force herself to do. Which, knowing Aveline, was a distinct possibility.

Hawke & Isabela,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would also hope the two of you are staying out of trouble, but I’m not delusional. I can only hope the trouble you’re in isn’t too heinous.

The efforts to rebuild Kirkwall are continuing. At a snail’s pace, of course, but they are happening. Unfortunately, most of our resources are spent trying to protect what remains from looters. Chaos is a criminal’s best friend, and we’ve no shortage of motive or perpetrators in this city. And our troubles are not just from within anymore. Other nations and city-states see us as weak and ripe for the picking. Well, they can try. They won’t take us. Not while I have anything to say about it.

I suppose this isn’t making you want to stop by, is it? That might be for the best. Some people still think you caused this, and I can’t lock up rumors and slander in a cell, much as I’d like to.

I will try to find some time to visit, though I can’t say when that will be. In the meantime, you can continue to send letters to the barracks. No dirty pictures this time, please. I opened the last one up in front of the guards and they’re still teasing me about it.

Warm regards,  
Aveline

P.S.: Hawke, take care of Isabela. If you don’t watch her, she’ll probably blow herself up and take half of Thedas with her. And Donnic says hello.

  
“Aw, look,” Isabela said, handing the letter to Hawke. “She _does_ care! It’s hard to see under all the judgement and disdain, but it’s there if you dig.”

Hawke skimmed the letter and smiled. “Her regards are warm! And I like how she thinks _you_ would be the one to blow things up.”

* * *

**11 Bloomingtide, 9:38 Dragon**

If there was one thing the Tevinters were good at, Isabela decided, it was aesthetics. They knew how to make a grand first impression, and Ventus was no exception. Giant white walls surrounded the entire city, more fortress than port, penning its inhabitants against the cliffs like a herd of sheep. The only way in came from one lone towering archway cut into the walls along the docks, a gaping maw swallowing visitors and enemies alike.

The rest of the city huddled inside the walls, all blocks of white stone—similar to Antiva City, but less angular. Instead, each building curved like lobes of clover, topped with gentle slopes of rust-brown shingles. It was in direct contrast to the other Tevinter cities Isabela had spent time in, where a wrong step could poke an eye out. Ventus’s architecture, at first glance, appeared sparse, brutal in its simplicity, but this was Tevinter. The only culture more harshly stratified belonged to the Qunari. The mages of Ventus made their status known from a glance at their rooftops. Bronze dragons, elegant and terrible, perched on the magisters’ homes, their beady eyes following the lower classes scuttling through the alleys beneath them.

Well, they could watch Isabela scuttle to the bar, for all she cared.

At least that was something she knew. She was Queen of the Eastern Seas, not Northern, which meant precious few visits to Tevinter during her wayward years. Maybe there was a reason for it. The nation was Thedas’s bogeyman, after all, the place mothers used to terrorize their children into behaving: “Wash your face or you’ll be sent to Tevinter!” The Chantry certainly made good use of it. Any abuse of power could be forgiven so long as it kept Andrastian countries from “becoming Tevinter.” Even the Rivaini held their superstitions close, the bitter remnants of a people conquered a millennium ago.

It wasn’t entirely undeserved. The streets were spotless, her ship cleaned as soon as the mooring lines were tied. Any indications of the unsavory aspects of society were eliminated by the most unsavory aspect of them all: a small army of slaves, the _servus publicus_. They were almost part of the scenery, heads down and eyes averted, keeping the city—all of Tevinter—running, the oil in the gears. The ease with which Isabela learned to ignore them disturbed her. It was the same way she learned to ignore the elven servants in Kirkwall: cultural relativism, a quirk of less-civilized societies. It was an uncomfortable cognitive dissonance, but it was also the only thing keeping her skin from crawling right off her bones. She told herself she wasn’t closing her eyes to it. She wasn’t.

They ducked into a pub not long after docking. It had become a sort of ritual in every harbor they dropped anchor in: Isabela would stroll into her old haunts, greasy taverns and raucous bars, searching for work or those who wanted it. Business before pleasure, she told Hawke, though the type of business she conducted didn’t lack for pleasure; if it did, she wouldn’t do it.

Isabela knew she had the right place when the dominant language switched from Tevene to the King’s Tongue as she walked through the door. It was the lingua franca of sailors, even in a place as proud of its heritage as Tevinter. But sailors born in Tevinter weren’t Tevene, not truly. Sailing, and by extension, piracy, had its own language, its own culture. Every ship was an independent nation. 

As the door clicked shut behind her and her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted a few more potential citizens for her own. Two men, a Tevinter and another she couldn’t place by sight, sat at the bar talking shop—the kind of shop relevant to her interests. She took her place on the empty stool beside them, Hawke following closely behind, her silent shadow.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Isabela said, and the two men turned to their right to look at her. “We’re fresh off the docks. Is the swill here any good?”

The Tevinter glanced at his mug of beer and shrugged. “No better or worse than anything else in Ventus. Drinkable, unless you have especially discerning taste. Which would depend on where you hail from.”

“Llomerryn,” she answered. “So, no, definitely no discerning taste here.”

“We can’t all be fancy Tevinters,” said the other man. Nevarran, judging by the accent. He extended his hand. “Captain Glaucus. And this charming fellow is my first mate, Neilos.”

Isabela returned the handshake. “Admiral Isabela,” she said, not missing Neilos’s incremental eyebrow raise at the title. “And my associate, Hawke.”

“An admiral?” Glaucus exclaimed. “It is not every day you meet one of those. How many ships in your fleet?”

“A dozen, including my own,” she lied. Even if they joined her, the fleet was so decentralized no captain knew how many others could technically be called his comrades. Better to make herself sound more impressive. “I’m interested in expanding into Tevinter. I don’t suppose you know where two women like us could find some work?”

Glaucus eyed her over the rim of his tankard. “Depends on how many scruples you have.”

“Oh, I’ve misplaced quite a few of those over the years, I assure you.” Isabela gave what she hoped was a disarming smile.

“Ah, a woman after my own heart. Well, Devon Custos is always looking for sailors of flexible morals. And he pays handsomely.”

“_Lord_ Devon,” Neilos corrected. “You know how important that stupid title is to him. We could introduce you, if you wanted. I am sure he would love to meet you.”

Isabela’s blood froze in her veins. That was a name she never expected, nor wanted, to hear for the rest of her life. She struggled to maintain composure, even as the sounds of screaming began to creep back into her mind, melding with the fetid smell of bodies crammed wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling in the Siren’s Call’s hold.

“I’ve heard some... less than charitable things about Lord Devon,” she said, and her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth. The screams threatened to burst out of her, releasing the echoes of those five hundred souls trapped within.

“This is the Imperium, Admiral Isabela,” Neilos said, condescending smirk bending his mustache. “What kind of work were you expecting to find here, exactly? Besides, I cannot imagine a Llomerryn pirate would have qualms about such matters. Gold is gold.”

The bar suddenly felt devoid of air. _Gold is gold_. Those were her words, the ones she used when she realized the lives beneath the deck did not belong to smuggled convicts, before the flags of the Orlesian Navy fluttered into view. The words she used in an attempt to ameliorate the horror, the guilt. And Devon laughed and agreed with her, and they were one and the same.

“I believe I have found some of those lost scruples. Excuse us.” She got to her feet, the screams in her ears growing deafening, and left, and it took everything in her not to break into a sprint.

Devon had her clean the leftover bodies out of the hold when they escaped the Orlesians. Her penance. The smell filled her nostrils now, displacing the sea air, and it made her stomach heave.

“What was that about?” Hawke asked, her hand at Isabela’s wrist.

Isabela did not answer, only jerked her hand away and walked faster. She had to run, had to hide. From him, from Hawke, from her own conscience.

Bray, her first mate, was still at the wharf when she stormed in, his brow immediately creasing with concern.

“Get the crew and weigh anchor,” Isabela commanded. “We’re leaving.”

“We only just got here—” he started to protest, but she grabbed him by the collar with shaking hands, watched his eyes grow wide with fear.

“And we are leaving. _Now_,” she snarled. She could feel Hawke staring at her in disbelief. Let her. Now she would learn who Isabela really was.

Bray swallowed, unable to look at her. “Aye, Captain. I’ll take care of it.”

She let him go and marched up the gangplank to the surface deck, where a few of her men remained, stopping what they were doing to watch. Their eyes pierced like arrows. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to go to her quarters, but the thought of being belowdecks made the vice around her chest tighten, made her lungs fill with saltwater. But she couldn’t stay up here, not with all those eyes on her.

Trapped.

Hawke called her name again, and it was so far away, lost to the waves, the screams. _Run._

Under the stern she went, down to Castillon’s extravagant quarters, and she was no better than him. She was a fool to think she was any different, a fool to get that skull on her shoulder covered up. A fool to think her one life meant more than five hundred.

“Isabela, please talk to me.” There was Hawke, standing in the doorway, fear pitching her voice up as she watched Isabela pace around their room like a caged animal. “Don’t shut me out.”

Don’t shut her out? She didn’t know. She didn’t know the woman she loved was a monster. Better to be shut out, better to never learn. The back of Isabela’s tongue tasted like stale rum.

Hawke took a step forward but stopped short, winding her fingers together. “Who is Devon?” she asked softly, steadily, and Isabela felt like a feral beast Hawke hoped to calm.

The wood above them creaked and muffled shouts filtered through as the men prepared to put still-damp oars into the water. Bray could handle it. They didn’t need to see their captain like this.

Isabela pressed herself into the corner and slid down until she was sitting, putting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. This was supposed to be her private shame, the one thing she would keep locked away. Hawke could know about Hari, about Luis, about Bones, but not this. Never this. If she knew, she would leave.

“Bela...” Hawke sat in the middle of the floor, crossing her legs, a quiet smile on her face. “Come on now. Clamming up is my way of dealing with things. You can’t start doing it, too.”

“Everything is always a joke to you, isn’t it?” Isabela snapped, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth, but all the anger she poured into herself could not stay contained.

Hawke’s eyes dropped to the floor, her smile now a grimace. So much like a kicked dog. It was infuriating.

There came a gentle bobbing, a swaying as the oars pushed Second Chance away from the dock. Isabela’s stomach lurched, far too strong a response for such a small movement, but her mind had her body believing it was back in the Venefication Sea, her hands on the wheel so slick with sweat it was a wonder she could even steer. But with every body tossed overboard, Siren’s Call’s draft decreased, lifting out of the water even as Isabela’s heart sank further toward the seabed.

At first, she thought they would just kill enough to regain maneuverability to dodge the Orlesians. But the slaves were now evidence, Devon said, and they all needed to go. She told him the Orlesians wouldn’t catch them now, and besides, if they did, the corpses in the hold—still in chains—would be evidence enough to seal their fate. It didn’t matter. They weren’t people to him. They were currency, and now they were an annoyance.

Unspoken words burned on her lips. The same words she spat at Varric when he tried to confront her at the Hanged Man after Hawke’s duel. They clawed at the back of her teeth, desperate to come out, to hurt.

_Fuck you. You don’t know me._

She swallowed them.

“Devon was… is—” she started, and her throat felt coated in sand— “a slaver for the Armada. I worked with him a few years before Kirkwall.” And slept with him, which seemed unimportant by comparison, though it all made her feel filthy.

“You worked with a slaver?” Isabela couldn’t bring herself to look, but Hawke’s tone said it all. Incredulity, suspicion. Judgement.

“I didn’t know it at the time. I was in debt up to my eyeballs and he offered me a job. He said he was smuggling convicts out of Orlais and up to Tevinter. He handled the first leg of the trip to Llomerryn, and I would take them to Minrathous from there.”

What did she tell her fleet’s captains she would do if she caught them in the slave trade? Execution. _Fucking hypocrite_.

“They weren’t convicts, were they?” Hawked asked after a long silence.

Isabela continued to stare at her feet. “They weren’t.” She sighed. “And I should’ve known that, even if I didn’t see them loaded into my ship’s hold. I’d smuggled criminals before, but it was usually only a dozen, maybe two at most. As soon as we got out on the water, we were so heavy I knew there had to be hundreds down there.”

“Hundreds?”

“Five hundred, he told me after I confronted him. And we’d be looking at close to ten times that in profit, at least if they stayed healthy. Not that it mattered. The Orlesian Navy had tracked us since Devon left Val Chevin. Their fleet favors big, heavy ships, and normally Siren’s Call could outmaneuver them, but there was too much in the hold weighing us down. If… if they caught us, we’d hang.”

And they should have. Perhaps the noose would have been just. Instead, the slaves died while she and Devon continued to walk free. It wasn’t right.

“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of this,” Hawke said quietly, but the present moment had slipped from Isabela’s hands, and she was back in the embrace of the riptide.

“He—Devon, he forced me to bring them all up to the surface deck. Said he’d kill me himself if I didn’t. And then I—” She closed her eyes, every wretched second of it repeating on the insides of her eyelids, “I handled the wheel while he and his men… threw them all overboard. Every last one.”

“I don’t—”

She couldn’t stop. “We dipped through the shoal to Seheron, faster than the Orlesians could follow. And after we docked, I dragged thirty-six corpses from that fucking hold—”

“_Enough_. Please.”

That was sufficient to shove Isabela into reality again. When she at last managed to pull her gaze from the floor, Hawke’s betrayed expression was a slap across the face.

“You should know,” Isabela insisted. “You need to know exactly who is sharing your bed every night. This is who I am.”

Hawke shook her head. “It’s not who you are anymore.”

“No? It wasn’t even ten years ago that it happened—when I was someone who did things like that. I’ve killed for coin. I’ve fucked for coin. I let Devon stick his cock in me just because I was bored.”

“You can stop trying to push me away. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Hawke was calm, measured in her response, but Isabela knew her well enough to hear the effort hidden behind it. She had struck a nerve. It was almost satisfying.

“You deserve—”

“Don’t tell me what I deserve. I hate it when you do that.”

Bray’s calls to set the sails drifted from bow to stern, dampened by the layers of wood between them. Second Chance caught the wind, and Isabela could feel the increase in speed beneath her as her surroundings remained stationary, provoking another wave of vertigo. She didn’t know where they were headed. Minrathous was supposed to be the next stop, but she was no longer feeling especially keen on Tevinter, and she doubted Hawke was, either. 

She watched Hawke in silence, watched the gears turning in her head behind that mask of stone. Hawke would try to make things right, smooth things over the way she always did. All the while ripping herself to shreds behind closed doors. If Isabela made Hawke angry, if she made Hawke doubt, it would come later, when simmering emotions under a lid had sufficient time to boil over.

“It sounds like you did what you had to do,” Hawke reasoned, and there it was, everything put into a box to be dealt with later.

But Isabela was too lost in a mire of self-loathing to point it out. Let Hawke mull it over, these jagged little pieces of new information. Let her try and match those pieces to her picture of Isabela, turning them every which way. Let her give up and leave when she couldn’t make them fit.

Leaning her head against the wall, Isabela closed her eyes, though it made the dizziness worse. It was preferable to focus on the roiling in her guts than the turmoil in her head. She listened to Hawke stand up, then the faint thud as she dropped onto the bed next to Brutus. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Slipping in and out of an unconsciousness marred by memories, Isabela didn't come fully awake until she heard a soft knocking at her door. She looked around through sleep-blurred eyes, wincing at the stiffness in her neck. Hawke was gone. Brutus remained on the bed, massive head resting on his paws, sound asleep.

Another knock. Carefully, with an arm against the wall for balance, she picked herself up from the floor and went to see who on her ship was considerate enough to bother knocking.

“Captain,” greeted Bray as she opened the door, his eyes pools of worry mixed with relief. He was another Rivaini, one of Dice's men, part of the group who made the jump to her ship. The move took him from helmsman to mate, and he had flourished under the promotion. The last thing Isabela wanted was to seem incompetent to him.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “We've docked at Minrathous. I checked the maps and it was our next stop after Ventus.”

She rubbed her palms over her eyes, those brief snatches of sleep not nearly enough. “I'm fine. Saw some ghosts from my past that I could've done without. But I'm sorry for being a bitch.” 

Bray smiled, tilting the gold hoop through his lip. “Ah, all's well, Captain. Tevinter makes me cagey, too.”

“Is Hawke...?”

Maybe she was gone. Maybe she took the first ship she could find back to Ferelden, or even Kirkwall.

But no. “Up top,” Bray said. “She came out to help us douse the sails earlier.”

“All right, thank you. Go get the boys and have a drink. You've earned it.”

“Sure you don't want to keep us aboard just in case?”

His question was in jest, but she answered it seriously: “No. If anything's here, I'm staying to face it.”

The sun was blinding when she made her way to the surface deck. They had sailed straight through the night and partway into the morning, the sunrise at their backs. It was a wonder she wasn’t forced awake sooner by the red rays of dawn beaming through the stern windows into her quarters.

Her crew had already left, likely looking for breakfast and a dark hole to catch up on sleep. But Hawke was still there, leaning against the mainmast, observing the early morning bustle of Minrathous’s enormous docks. She didn’t turn at Isabela’s approach.

“I’m surprised you were able to sleep sitting in the corner,” Hawke said.

“Well, when my body is kind enough to let me pass out, it doesn’t seem to matter where I am.”

Isabela looked at Hawke, studying her in the glare of the mid-morning sun. Her posture was loose, one foot against the mast, arms crossed, shoulders slightly hunched. But Hawke always carried her tension in her neck and jaw, and the muscles there were steel cords, an angry twitch fluttering below her ear as she clenched her teeth. She was upset—that delayed reaction as her emotions leaked out from their containers.

“We can go back to Llomerryn if you want. Or anywhere. We don’t need to risk running into anyone else you’d rather not see.” Hawke’s words were edged with mistrust, a more bitter toxin than anything Isabela could dip her blades into.

Hawke still refused to look at her, and Isabela followed her unwavering gaze to the docks, where dozens of Tevinter’s state-owned slaves hauled cargo and scrubbed piers. Briefly, morbidly, Isabela wondered if they handled the fresh slaves shipped in like the ones she was supposed to bring from Orlais. What did they think? Were they pitying? Resigned? Angry?

“We’re already here. Might as well see what the once greatest city of Thedas has to offer, right?” Isabela turned towards Hawke, angling around the mast, reaching a hand out before letting it drop back to her side. “But I can tell you’re not happy with me. Maybe we should talk it out before any sight-seeing.”

“I’m…” Hawke pursed her lips and closed her eyes, one last futile attempt to keep it in. “No. I’m not happy. I’m angry. Not just with what you did, but because you kept it from me. You _don’t_ hide shit like that from someone you love. But you did. And you _keep_ doing it. And then the truth comes out and you try your damndest to paint yourself as a monster, because you think I should hate you as much as you hate yourself.”

Put on the defensive, Isabela had to bite back her initial retort. Hawke was hurting, and the words stemming from that hurt were painful, but she wasn’t wrong, and that’s what stung the most. She always had the uncanny ability to strip Isabela bare, past all the protective layers, walls both carefully constructed and hastily thrown up.

“You’re right. I think I just… I couldn’t talk about it, because if I talked about it, that would make it real. And I’ve spent the last nine years wishing it wasn’t.”

“Isabela, that could’ve been me and my family—you know that, don’t you?” Hawke accused, her voice breaking. “We got on that ship in Gwaren trusting the captain would take us to Kirkwall. What if he hadn’t? Or what if he did take us to Kirkwall and some other captain who thought we were convicts took us to Tevinter?”

“I know.”

Of course Isabela knew it. The thought hadn’t left her mind since the moment she discerned Hawke’s origin. The slaves she transported came from before the Blight, but the ones she freed two years later were Fereldan refugees fleeing the darkspawn, the same as Hawke. And there were countless more who didn’t have a guilt-ridden pirate setting them loose into the Planesene. How many did Devon take?

They were quiet for a time, watching the endless parade of dockhands flitting to and from the countless quays, before Hawke spoke again. 

“What did you do after you left Seheron?”

Might as well be honest. “Sailed back to Llomerryn. Thought about burning my ship. A week after I came back, I took a gallon of rum to the beach and tried to drink myself to death. Blacked out and almost drowned.”

She’d had the hold scrubbed top to bottom, and the stench of death still lingered, though only she could smell it. Not that it mattered. Even if she didn’t burn Siren’s Call, the storm she sailed into enacted karmic retribution all the same.

“That... explains why you don’t drink rum,” Hawke ventured, and Isabela nodded. “Let me ask you something.” She pushed off from the mast and finally turned to face Isabela directly. “Did you really not know what you were getting into when you took that job?”

“No,” Isabela replied firmly. “And I think that’s what I hate the most. If I had just looked in the damned hold, if I had forced Devon to tell me the truth… I could have refused. And he would’ve found someone else to do the work, but at least it wouldn’t have been me. But I didn’t question it. Maybe, deep down, I knew what the answer would be if I did.”

“You’ve always told me you know who you are. You can’t honestly look at yourself and think, ‘I’m the same as him,’ can you?”

“I know I’m not, but you can’t separate me from my mistakes. I made those choices. And I’ve tried to atone for it and I’ve tried to move past it, but it was my fuck-up and I get to live with the consequences.” Isabela stared at her hands. “I just… I’ve always asked myself, ‘Why me?’ Why am I still alive and they’re not?”

Hawke fidgeted with the pendant of her necklace—a silver anchor Isabela bought when they first arrived to Llomerryn. “You’re not the only one who’s asked themselves that question,” she said softly.

It wasn’t a statement intending to hurt, but it felt like a kick to the chest just the same. Of course Hawke had asked herself that same thing. They had talked about it—late night, tear-filled discussions in Isabela’s room, long before any burgeoning feelings for each other were acknowledged. Survivor’s guilt had kept Hawke gripped in its claws for over a decade. Her father, her fellow soldiers killed at Ostagar, Carver, Leandra, and likely others Isabela wasn’t aware of. Hawke carried their deaths with her, ghostly handcuffs. She had the misfortune of continually dodging death’s scythe, while the people she cared for were caught in its arc.

“Hawke…” All the frustration, all the remorse, melted away, and Isabela was left exhausted, leaning her shoulder into the mast for support.

“Sorry.” Hawke tapped the toe of her boot into the surface deck. “I didn’t mean to make this about me.”

“It’s fine. Contrary to popular belief, the world does not, in fact, revolve around me.” 

Though Hawke’s smile at the joke was tiny, Isabela’s relief from it was immeasurable. 

Then, more quiet. That was always how it went. Long stretches of silence interspersed with brief outbursts of emotion. And thinking. Ruminating. Isabela took the outcomes she feared most and rolled them around in her head, let them toss and heave like dinghies in a storm, until Hawke swept the clouds away and kept everything from capsizing. And then Isabela would wonder how much longer Hawke could stand it, and the skies would darken once more. She had to break the cycle.

“I’m sorry,” Isabela said. “I should’ve told you about this sooner. I was afraid if you knew, you would leave.” There. Honesty. Vulnerability. Maybe, with enough practice, it wouldn’t feel like those honest, vulnerable words were slicing her throat to ribbons whenever she spoke them.

“I’ve said it a hundred times—I’m not going anywhere.” Only Hawke could manage to sound so gentle in her anger, a fist gloved in silk. She sighed. “Is there anything else you need to tell me about, since we’re here?”

Isabela’s answer was immediate. “No. Like I said, I’ve had no shortage of mistakes in my life. But only a few keep me up at night, and now you know all of them. This... this was the worst of the lot. I swear.”

“You swear?”

Perhaps that phrase was poisoned by now, but it was true. Hawke knew it all, knew more than Isabela ever thought a single person could pry out of her. All her locks were broken.

“I do. If you still want to be with me, I can’t fight it. I’ve got nothing more to scare you off with.”

Hawke made an exasperated sound, half-laugh, half-groan. “Of course I want to be with you, dumbass.”

The comment took Isabela by surprise, and a snort of laughter burst from her before she could think to stop it. It drew a cautious giggle from Hawke, softening her expression into something less panic-provoking, and maybe, Isabela thought, they would be okay.

She took a chance and approached, and Hawke pulled her in for an embrace, a mending of wounds. They held each other for a time, Isabela watching the ebb and flow of the Nocen Sea against the docks over Hawke’s shoulder.

When they parted, Isabela searched Hawke’s eyes for reassurance and found warmth there, far more than there was before. Isabela cupped Hawke’s face in her palm. She took a deep breath of hot, dry northern air.

“I love you,” she said. “I want to be better than who I used to be.”

It was getting easier to say it. Less a backwards plunge off a cliff and more a jump off a dock into a lake. Still, she was careful, saving the phrase for when it counted most, when she couldn’t hold it back. And every time, she relished what those words did to Hawke, that brief look of happy bewilderment before she melted.

“You _are_ better than who you used to be. If you weren’t, I’d be on a ship and halfway to Ferelden by now.” Hawke trailed her fingertips over Isabela’s upturned forearms. “I know your past isn’t exactly pristine. I’ve known that from the start. Just… you can’t leave me in the dark about it. That’s not fair to me. Or to you, really.”

“I know, I know. We need to be able to trust each other, and I haven’t made that an easy thing to do. Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Isabela smiled and walked her fingers forward until she had Hawke’s elbows in her palms.

“If I am, it’s a lucky coincidence, because I have no bloody idea what I’m doing the vast majority of the time.” Hawke mirrored Isabela’s expression with a small smile of her own. “And I love you, too. You ridiculous, maddening woman.”

“Ridiculous, maddening, _and_ a dumbass. You’ve really won big, haven’t you?”

Hawke gasped in faux-indignation. “You’ve called me worse. In multiple languages!”

“With love. All my insults are accompanied by massive amounts of love. It’s how I show my affection.” Isabela looked out to the brutal sprawl of Minrathous, its immense, onyx Circle jutting into the heavens. “Now, my sweet, beautiful idiot, can we please get off this boat?”

She would do better. She would _be_ better. What she had now was too valuable to lose.

* * *

**1 August, 9:38 Dragon**

Isabela’s experience with Orlais was largely restricted to its jails. One month in Jader, another in Val Royeaux, and fifty-nine miserable days in Val Chevin. Her sentence was for sixty, but the jailer was kind enough to let her out a whole day early due to a rampant infection from a recently-acquired prison tattoo. By the time they released her, she was nearly incoherent, a shivering, sweaty mess. The tattoo on her hip—originally meant to be a rhododendron—had putrefied, leaving it completely unrecognizable. 

Somehow, she had managed to stumble into a nearby healer after quite literally being tossed to the streets by the prison guards. The healer took her in for what was apparently a week; Isabela remembered little of it, only brief, blurry glimpses of a kind, weathered face and walls lined with jars and bottles. 

The moment she felt well enough to stand, she waited for the healer to leave. Then she fled, clumsily slipping out the back door on knees made weak from illness and disuse, too ashamed to face her savior without a copper of payment. 

As they left the wooden planks of the docks toward Val Chevin’s wide, smooth-stoned avenues, Isabela considered that the healer might still practice in the city. But they probably wouldn’t remember her. Or maybe they would. Delirious, tattooed Rivaini women weren’t especially common in this part of Orlais. What would she say? _Sorry I never paid you. Or offered my help in lieu of coin. Or showed any form of gratitude whatsoever for saving my life._

She wondered what she could do to make up for it. She wondered how many more people in her life she had treated so poorly. She wondered when she started to care about such things.

Now she would get to experience Val Chevin properly. Not just the inside of some noble family’s jewelry room in the dead of night, not just the flat gray walls and metal bars of a jail cell—both of which, in her experience, looked much the same anywhere else. Now she could see the gently sloping hills, the humble farmhouses with their deep brown, sharply sloped rooftops nestled in every lush nook, the windmills towering over fields of herbs so fragrant she could smell wisps of mint and sage even over the briny wood of the docks.

Classically romantic, Isabela decided. Like Antiva City, but more unassuming, less pretentious. Certainly less ostentatious than Val Royeaux. She would never admit it, but this was a side of Orlais she could, perhaps, learn to like.

“When was the last time you were in Orlais?” Hawke asked, hooking her hand around the inside of Isabela’s offered elbow.

Isabela wanted to bottle the look on Hawke’s face every time she took in a new city. That unrestrained look of awe as her eyes swept from side to side, trying to absorb everything in at once. The way her brow furrowed, the way she chewed on her lower lip in concentration, working through each unfamiliar wave of foreign languages, cuisines, fashions. Her quiet smile when she caught Isabela staring at her like a lovesick fool.

“About a year before Kirkwall. When I got this,” Isabela replied, patting her right hip, the spot where the scarred remains of her prison-made rhododendron lay. It may have healed rough and indiscernible as any sort of flower, but it made for a fun story, which was really all she could ask for from any of her many, many mistakes.

“So, buckets of fond memories, I take it?”

“Well, it wasn’t all incarceration and infected tattoos. I crashed a comte’s wedding in Val Royeaux with Dice and Bones once. Granted, I think he had invited half the country to the stupid thing, so it wasn’t like it was difficult.” 

Even dressed to the nines and calling on every bit of her noble instruction in Antiva, Isabela still felt ridiculous and out of place. And she was better off than her comrades, who hadn’t experienced the distinct pleasure of being sold to a rich man and trained like a show pony. Dice was practically born on a pirate ship, and Bones had spent all of his formative years isolated in Ostwick’s Circle. They weren’t exactly part of _la noblesse_.

“Did you get caught?”

“Pfft.” Isabela stopped, drawing herself up straight and planting her hands on her hips. “Do I look like an amateur to you?”

Hawke was not convinced. “Weren’t you caught stealing and thrown into jail in this very city? And what about the Qunari tome? And that statuette of Andraste, _and_—”

“Wait, hold on,” Isabela interrupted, placing a finger to Hawke’s lips. The whole of Val Chevin didn’t need to know about every blunder. “First, Aveline never found out I was the one who stole that statue, so you can scratch that right off your list. And second, a thief who never gets caught in their entire career hasn’t stolen enough to rightfully call themselves a thief. My hundreds, nay, _thousands_ of successes can’t be overshadowed by a handful of failures. So there,” she finished, leaning in to kiss Hawke on the nose.

“So, what you’re telling me is that this wedding was one of your thousands of successful heists?”

“It was! Stuffed ourselves to the gills with free food and booze, dipped into the comte’s pile of wedding presents…”

It had required some finesse. Enough mingling to set the other patrons at ease, but not too much to expose themselves as frauds. She gave the boys their fake names and backstories: Dice was Rafael Onye, a weapons merchant who often supplied chevaliers in the groom’s family. And Bones was William Hart, a distant relative of Tantervale’s Lord Chancellor Orrick. Isabela, as always, borrowed Captain Marie Jean-Bernard’s name for herself.

They flowed through the wedding guests like smoke, grabbing flutes of champagne and goblets of wine, fussy little pastries and delicate hors d'oeuvres. Though Isabela could spin a yarn like no other, she had no interest in playing the Game; a clever Orlesian would spot the holes in her story within a few sentences. So she remained among the other foreigners as best she could, socializing with Marchers and Antivans and even the rare Fereldan. Dice followed her lead, though he eventually settled for planting himself at the bar, telling grandiose (and mostly false) stories about Rivain between flagons of wine. 

And Bones, bless his gentle heart, got wrapped up in comforting a distraught bridesmaid who felt she would die alone. When Isabela went to look for him, she found the bridesmaid clinging to him, drunkenly sobbing on his shoulder. Bones simply offered Isabela his usual lopsided smile and shrug while placidly patting his accidental date on the back.

The happy couple themselves remained swallowed up by their gargantuan party; the pirate trio didn’t encounter them the entire night. They did, however, encounter the gifts brought by the wedding guests—the real guests, at any rate. Fortunately, by that stage of the evening, the party-goers were sufficiently intoxicated and would never notice a few missing baubles from a mountain of presents, nor the conspicuous absence of three foreigners when the time came for boxes to be opened and ribbons to be untied.

Hawke’s eyes grew bright with mischief. “Sounds fun,” she said. “Next time you catch wind of any noble weddings, take me with you.”

“What, all the piracy isn’t enough? Are you craving more debauchery?” Isabela teased, knowing the answer. 

Hawke had gradually been joining her for more excursions with the fleet, calling on her mercenary roots. She slotted in seamlessly among the crew, hauling lines and swapping dirty jokes, crawling aboard merchant vessels in the dead of night to set them free. Though the pirates knew her relationship with their admiral, Hawke’s work ethic shut down any potential strife. She was one of them.

What would the Hightown nobles do if they saw their Champion now? It was a delightful thought.

“Perhaps. Speaking of which, I need to go run an errand in town, so you’ll have to find some way to amuse yourself for a few hours.”

“An errand? For what? You’ve never even been here before.”

“It’s a surprise! Now go on,” Hawke urged, giving Isabela an encouraging pat on the ass. “We can meet back here later.”

And then she was off, striding into Val Chevin’s tree-lined streets, disappearing into throngs of masked strangers.

“A surprise,” Isabela said to no one, eyeing her surroundings with fresh suspicion. “Lovely.”

She wandered through the avenues, late summer’s sun beating down on her shoulders and casting dappled shadows across the cobblestones through the trees. Briefly, Isabela considered returning to the ship and grabbing Brutus, if only so she wouldn’t be alone, but the mabari seemed to enjoy being a homebody in his old age, keeping the bed warm while his owners went on adventures. It concerned her, but Isabela didn’t know how long mabari were supposed to live, and it wasn’t something she wanted to bring up to Hawke. Shaking her head, she shoved such depressing thoughts under a rug. They would deal with it together when the time came.

Lost in thought, she passed patisseries and shoemakers, coopers and art galleries without truly looking at anything. Nary a head turned as she went by; Orlesians were far too polite for such things. It wasn’t until the street opened up into a wide plaza that she stopped to take in the scenery. 

In front of her, looming over the plaza like some great, hulking beast, sat Val Chevin’s main chantry. Though not quite as tall as some of the others she had seen in her travels, it made up for it in width, covering the entire length of the square. Tall arched windows and deep blue doors broke up the monotonous expanse of otherwise unremarkable dusty bricks, and twin statues of Andraste, solemn and imposing, flanked the steps leading up to the main entrance.

Various people flocked around the small courtyard surrounding the building: townsfolk, huddled amongst their own social classes, Chanters babbling their nonsense, other robed men and women Isabela assumed were maybe brothers or sisters or mothers or cousins—she never had bothered to learn the levels of Chantry hierarchy.

One particular robed woman stood apart from the others, observing, a small, serene smile on her face. She was older, maybe in her sixth decade by Isabela’s reckoning, with strands of white peeking out from beneath her cowl. She sensed she was being watched and turned, and Isabela’s breath seized in her throat. The healer.

Isabela could have kept walking, could have spun away, ducked her head down, pretended not to notice. But she didn’t. Her feet betrayed her, taking her toward the healer, close enough to be recognized. She could see the older woman’s eyes narrow slightly, her steel-shot eyebrows tilting as realization began to creep in.

“Good afternoon, my child,” the healer said, inclining her head. Her accent, though mellow, placed her as a native Orlesian. “Have you come seeking solace in the light of the Maker?”

“Not… particularly, no,” Isabla replied, suddenly feeling thoroughly foolish. “Though I have the uncomfortable feeling I might have at one point. Around nine or ten years ago.”

There was that final flash of recognition, a satisfied smile on full, age-lined lips. “Ah, as I thought. The woman from the prison, no?”

“The one and only. Infected tattoo and all.”

“Truly? That is what it was? I had assumed you were injured in a fight. Perhaps stabbed,” the healer said, and it sounded like it could have been a joke, though Isabela doubted Chantry people were interested in such frivolities.

“No, merely the unfortunate work of a botanist seeking a real prison experience. And one bored Rivaini.”

“I am surprised you remember. You were in a very poor condition. It was a wonder you could walk as soon as you did.”

Isabela stifled a wince. Nothing about the woman’s tone seemed pointed; truthfully, nothing in her demeanor indicated any resentment over Isabela’s past error, but it didn’t matter. The thinnest scrap of possibility fed a fire of guilt.

“I… yes, about that. It wasn’t… it wasn’t right. What I did. I know I didn’t have any coin to pay you. But I should have thanked you, at least.”

The healer tilted her head slightly, as if confused. “We do not heal the sick or feed the hungry for want of payment or gratitude. You were in need and the Maker guided you to our steps. To deny you would be to deny His will.”

Why did that always have to be the reason with these religious types, Isabela wondered, bristling. The Maker did this, the Maker did that. Did the Maker make her steal, make her kill? Did He make her free those Fereldan refugees or bring the Tome of Koslun back? Why couldn’t people be held accountable for their own actions, good or ill?

“But I sense it is not merely a lack of compensation causing you discomfort,” the healer said, and Isabela wished she had a face for card games the way Hawke did. “Perhaps because of where you were and who I am? Does it upset you to know a Mother treated your wounds?”

“That’s not upsetting, no. The idea that it was the Maker and not, I don’t know, delirium caused by a runaway infection that caused me to stumble over here… that’s the upsetting bit. I like to think I’m in control of my own actions, even while confused by a fever.”

“You are not a believer?” the Mother asked, still unfazed.

“Nor am I a disbeliever, so don’t get your robes in a twist. I don’t care either way.” Isabela waved her hands around, grasping at words to make a decent argument. “Look, there are three religions in Rivain. Yours, the Qun, and the other is so old we don’t even have a name for it in our language. Sometimes they all can coexist. Sometimes the Andrastians or the Qunari decide to kill everyone. Why should I be interested in any of that?”

The Mother listened intently to Isabela’s screed, then smiled again. “You do not have to be,” she said, so maddeningly calm.

“You must have seen me come from the jail. I’m not a virtuous woman. I never have been. Surely I must seem ripe for conversion.”

“If you ‘seem’ to be anything, it is determined to think I require something for healing you.” Her smile faded. “We are in precarious times, my child. The College of Enchanters talks of succession. Whispers of plots to overthrow our Empress grow louder by the day. All I am able to do is take care of those who need it. And if those who need it are apostates, templars, or criminals, I cannot judge. It is not my place.” 

She took a step toward Isabela, once again solemn, and there was a weariness, a weight hanging from her that wasn’t there before. When she spoke, her words felt like setting a broken bone.

“I hope you have found peace in the years since we met. I hope you have experienced kindness that is not merely transactional.”

_Dammit_. A rush of tingling pressure crashed into the backs of Isabela’s eyes. “I… I have. It’s not always easy for me to recognize, maybe, but I have.”

“Then I am glad. Let me ask you something. Why did you come here? You could have walked past, pretended not to know me, but you did not. Why?”

“I told you. I wanted to make things right, and—” Isabela paused as the Mother’s smile grew subtly wider, deepening the creases around her eyes. “Are all old religious women so frustrating? The seers back home did this same thing to me. I don’t know when or _why_ I started to care about making amends and doing the right thing, but here I am, so… I’m sorry for not thanking you properly for saving my life, and if it’s not too late to say it, then… thank you.”

“You are most welcome, and it is never too late for such things. Now, if it is not too much to ask, may I know your name? You said a great many things while in the grips of sickness, but I do not believe that was one of them.”

“Tempting as it is, I won’t ask what I babbled at you. Wasn’t anything good, I’m sure. Nothing I say is Chantry-appropriate even when I have full control of my faculties. I’m Isabela,” she said, taking the Mother’s offered hand—an odd gesture, given handshakes were not the customary greeting in either of their countries. It seemed appropriate, however, a compromise between two very different women.

“Édith,” replied the Mother. “You are always welcome here, Isabela. Believer or no.”

“I’m not sure I’ll take you up on that offer, but it’s appreciated.”

They said their goodbyes and Isabela left to find Hawke, hoping she hadn’t gotten herself into too much trouble, at least not without someone to share it with.

As the chantry faded behind her, the meeting with Mother Édith refused to do the same. Though the results of her actions left Isabela with an uneasy peace, the motivation behind those actions kept her mind in a state of unrest. What did she even want to make amends for? It wasn’t a matter of doing something wrong and wanting to fix it, not really. It was, she realized, filling, not fixing. Filling an absence, a hole where she neglected to do the right thing, and instead did nothing. Maybe her life was filled with such pits, and she had simply been lucky—or willfully ignorant—enough to avoid tripping into any of them.

And what of Mother Édith herself? She certainly wasn’t like any other Mother Isabela had ever met. Not that she went out of her way to meet that many, but the Chantry members of Rivain, particularly in Llomerryn, were far more abrasive. They viewed conversion as a battle to be won, a war against the Qun, the spirits, and the religiously apathetic. Mother Édith lacked such belligerence. Orlais was the seat of the Chantry, of course, yet there was something more to the old woman that couldn’t be explained by the power of the organization behind her. She was utterly secure in her faith. And maybe her acceptance of Isabela’s skepticism was a ploy, but it didn’t feel like a trick, some attempt to lure Isabela into a false sense of trust before aiming the cannons. Édith just… was, as Isabela just was, as the whole world ought to be.

Despite the thoughts swirling in her head, Isabela managed to hear Hawke before she saw her—participating in a loud, colorful argument with a deeper-voiced Orlesian, Hawke growing more agitated by the second. Picking up her pace, Isabela rounded the corner and spied the conflict through a shop window. A weapons shop, judging from the blades in the display cases. _Interesting choice, Hawke_.

She couldn’t make out all the words, but she did hear something along the lines of, “This is ridiculous!” along with “Robbery!” and then a retort of, “Quality craftsmanship!” from what appeared to be the shop owner. Over the perfumed buds of the lavender planted in the window box, Isabela saw him wave a knife around. Time to intervene.

“Hello, Hawke,” she said, the door’s bell ringing as she entered. “Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

The shopkeep’s face fell, along with the hand holding the knife, and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “_merde_.” Then he said, no more cheerful than before, “A Rivaini. Of course.”

Off to a grand start. “Were you expecting me?” Isabela asked him. 

“I know your people cannot stand to buy anything at face value. Clearly your friend has learned your ways.”

Isabela turned toward Hawke. “Aw, were you trying to haggle? That’s so precious!”

“Of course I’m going to haggle when this… _man_,” Hawke forced out, evidently avoiding the urge to call him something far more interesting, “is trying to sell a knife like that for thirty gold!”

“_Royals_,” corrected the merchant. “Thirty _royals_, which is precisely what an Orlesian-forged blade is worth. Not that I would expect a _Fereldan_ to understand such things.”

“You’re right. Fereldans wouldn’t know a good knife if it shanked them between the ribs,” Isabela said lightly, hoping her hand now pressed against Hawke’s lower back would be enough to signal her intent. “But Rivaini, we know weaponry. We wouldn’t be very good pirates and thieves if we didn’t, now would we?”

The shopkeep swallowed, fighting a smile. “Well, I’m sure you’re not _all_ pirates and thieves,” he offered, a poor attempt to mask his own bigotry, and placed the knife back on the table.

Isabela inspected the weapon. Not too terrible a blade, in truth. A bit frilly, maybe, but it wasn’t purely ceremonial. Hawke had a good eye for such things, Isabela thought with no small amount of pride. That said, it wasn’t worth thirty royals.

“Now, you know I can’t pay thirty for this. I’d be a traitor to my people. And it’s a bit on the small side for my tastes. Fifteen would be fair, don’t you think?”

The seller huffed his disapproval. “I can’t let a piece this fine go for less than twenty-eight royals. And it may be small, but size is not everything, no? How you use it is far more important.”

“Hm. Eighteen royals. And I’ll concede that technique is crucial, but you do need some minimum of size, otherwise you can’t feel a thing, and where’s the fun in that?”

This went on for a time, until Isabela grew bored. She ended the game, settling on twenty royals—about three less than the blade was worth. A slim margin, perhaps, but not a bad showing. The merchant seemed pleased with the transaction. Though, Isabela considered, he might have been more pleased with the exchange of innuendos than of currency.

“How much did you open with?” Isabela asked as they left, the knife tucked into her belt, joining its four sisters stashed about her person. 

“Ten,” Hawke replied with a shrug. 

“You went too low on the initial offer, love. It put him on the defensive. But I’m still tickled you even tried it. Rivain must have rubbed off on you more than I thought.” 

“Or maybe it was just you rubbing off on me.” Hawke waggled her eyebrows and gave Isabela a nudge with her elbow. “I got something else for you, too.” She pulled a bottle out of her bag. “Champagne! But,” she was quick to add, holding the bottle just out of reach of Isabela’s grasping fingers, “you have to take back that comment about Fereldans.”

“Do you really think I’d fall for a woman who doesn’t know her blades? Now take me back to the ship. That bottle is desperate to have its cork popped, I can just tell.” And maybe she was, too, after all that talk of size and girth and technique.

Hawke smirked. “Aye aye, Admiral.”

* * *

**29 Kingsway, 9:38 Dragon**

Dwarves in Llomerryn stuck out like Chantry sisters at a whorehouse. With no nearby links to the underground and no way to the island besides by ship—a method of travel deemed horrendous by the majority of the race—only the most adventurous of surface dwarves tended to visit. So when a young dwarf approached Isabela and greeted her by name late at night at the Full and By’s bar, it was surprising on multiple levels.

“Name’s Torshek,” he said, handing Isabela a small package tied with twine. “I’m an associate of Varric’s.”

“Is he following me now?” she asked, frowning. Varric looked out for his friends, but occasionally, much like Aveline, his “assistance” could cross the line from helpful to suffocating.

Torshek twisted the braids of his beard around his thick fingers. “Not on purpose. We do our own jobs for him, and those jobs don’t include stalking his friends. But you’re a hard woman to miss, if you don’t mind me saying. He wanted this delivered to you whenever I heard you were back on the island.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, he told me to pass on a tip. You can take it or leave it. You spend any time around Wycome?”

“I’ve been known to.”

“Great. There’s a merchant down there named Cormac Flynn. You heard of him?” Torshek didn’t wait for a response. “Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s not a big-time player, but he landed himself a nice-sized shipment of lyrium headed for Ostwick in about two week’s time. Only problem for him is, he didn’t pay us for it. He stole it.”

“And stealing is wrong,” she said, taking another sip of her beer.

Torshek’s eyes narrowed. “When you’re stealing from the Carta, you’re sodding right it is,” he growled. “You cut it loose and get it back to us, we pay you. Simple.”

Where was this going? Did Varric think he was doing her a favor by dropping his business in her lap? She was supposed to do the Carta’s dirty work? Especially after all the trouble Hawke caused them in Kirkwall… it didn’t add up. But Varric was shrewd. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.

“So what’s stopping me from taking it down to Ostwick myself and getting a better price for it?” she asked, daring to lay her cards out. Her contacts at the Ostwick Circle would let her name the price for lyrium as long as they were desperate enough for it. And they always were.

“You could do that.” He leaned against the bar, the bartop well above his head. “The Carta’s already written it off as a loss, so no one would come after you. But, you do this favor for us, we’ll have more work. This little spat between the mages and the templars means a whole lot of lyrium is getting moved around. A lot of money to be made if you have the right friends. So here’s your chance to make some.” 

A line of gigs with the Carta? Unusual. They tended to keep their supply lines under lock and key. Orzammar to Chantry, no intermediates. But the world was changing. Things weren’t so crystal clear anymore.

“I’ll consider it.”

“You do that. If your consideration brings you our way, this package has the name of our contact in Hercinia. He’s a shipwright at the docks. Can’t miss him. I’ll tell Varric you said hi.” 

Torshek unceremoniously placed the bundle in her hands, then left, the door slamming behind him on the way out. Busy man, apparently.

Setting her beer to the side, Isabela untied the twine and pulled the letter free. She considered waiting until morning, when Hawke was awake, but Isabela was never a patient woman. 

To her relief, Varric’s handwriting was immediately recognizable: jaunty chicken scratch, tilted at such a severe angle Isabela could only assume he wrote sideways on a pile of unfinished manuscripts.

Chuckles and Rivaini,

Sorry it’s been so long since the last letter. You’d think someone who writes for a living would be better at this.

What do you even put in these damn things, anyway?

Now I remember. Thanks for reviewing the final draft of “The Tale of the Champion.” That’s the title I’m going with, I think. I’ll try to address your main critiques:

1\. H: I realize you weren’t actually sleeping with everyone in Kirkwall, but “the town slut falls in love with the other town slut” is a very popular narrative these days, trust me. People are gonna eat it up.  
2\. I: You already have more lines than anyone else. Stop asking for more content. You were out of the country for three years, remember? Not a great look for the hero’s love interest, by the way. Just saying.  
3\. I won’t mention that incident at the Hanged Man with the chicken.  
4\. I will mention that incident at the Bone Pit with the dragon. Can’t believe I forgot about it.  
5\. I already have an editor. Stop telling me I use too many commas; I know!  
6\. Do you really think the broody elf is out of character? He’s hard to write, sure, but out of character? You wound me.  
7\. I take it all the sad faces you drew in the margins around the Arishok duel means I did a good job.

It should be ready to head to the presses in the next few months. I’m not sure what the response is gonna be, but it’s a story that needs to be told. You would not believe the bullshit that goes around about you in Kirkwall.

Speaking of stories that need to be told… for whatever reason, my publisher tells me sales of “Swords and Shields” have recently spiked. People are clamoring for more, apparently. You think you could get me another chapter by the end of Harvestmere? I can send you a 50% share of the royalties, but that’s as high as I’m gonna go. You’re not the only one who knows how to drive a hard bargain, Rivaini.

Not much news from Kirkwall, which is good news, as far as I’m concerned. Red and Curly have reached some sort of truce, and between the guards and whatever templars are left, they’ve managed to cut down on the looting. Which, theoretically, means that rebuilding should start soon, but I’m not holding my breath. There’s no organization. We need a viscount. And no, I’m not stupid enough to volunteer myself for the job.

I’m having one of my own deliver this letter. He might have a few ideas for some fun. I’ll tell him to pass the word on.

—VT

Oh, and before I forget: please send rum.

  
Folded beneath Varric’s letter was a smaller piece of paper. Written on it in a blunt, well-spaced hand was: “Wulfred Kitrin.”

So, Wycome again. It seemed Captain Glenn would get the chance to prove himself worthy of a position in her fleet. And she would get the chance to make a few more friends.

* * *

**12 Harvestmere, 9:38 Dragon**

Wycome’s harbor was bathed in moonlight, setting the ships gently bobbing at port alight with blue and silver trim. Tufts of smoke-colored clouds offered an intermittent cover of shadows to the two rowboats approaching the starboard side of a particular galleon, oars silently dipping into a sea black as pitch. Second Chance and Captain Glenn’s ship, a frigate he called “Retribution,” dropped anchor just outside the cove, with orders to sail to Ostwick the moment Cormac Flynn’s galleon acquired new owners.

As they came within range of their target, Isabela stood and signalled the halt with a raised fist before stooping to unwind the coil of rope at her feet. Glenn did the same in the second boat, slightly unsteady as the vessel shifted on the waves beneath him. 

The rope was thick, chafing against her palms as she worked her hands toward the end of it, where a heavy, multi-pronged iron hook sat, patiently waiting for something to sink into. A quick swing to build momentum and the grappling hook was up and away, launching over the galleon’s railing. She gave it a tug to make sure it had caught, and, satisfied it would hold her weight, used it to pull their dinghy closer still, careful to avoid too loud a thud as the two boats collided.

This was always the hardest part. With a glance to her right to make sure Glenn’s own hook was buried, Isabela planted a boot to the hull. Fortunately, the seas were calm that night, and her footing wouldn’t be hampered by wet wood. With Hawke’s hands holding her steady, the world turned on its axis and Isabela stalked up the side of the galleon, her back and shoulders screaming with the effort.

Once at the top, she breathed a sigh of relief, if only because she was no longer forced to fight gravity. The deck appeared empty. With any luck, most of Flynn’s sailors would be ashore, drunk or sleeping. But there would be a few hands left on board to keep watch, especially with a hold full of lyrium. She hoped they weren’t the loyal sort. Cleaning up blood was always such a pain.

One by one, Hawke, Glenn, and another ten crewmen clambered over the railing; two stayed behind to man the rowboats. Too wary of voices carried by the night breeze, Isabela set her crew to task using only her hands, their specific instructions already given that afternoon: she would move portside to signal their men on the docks to start cutting the mooring lines, then join Hawke and Glenn in clearing any of Flynn’s jacks from the top deck—either through persuasion or brute force. The rest were to guard the doors to the berths in case things grew noisy enough to rouse any sleeping crew. Once Isabela gave the all-clear, the anchor would be stowed, the sails would be loosed, and Flynn’s galleon and lyrium would be hers. Easy enough.

They fanned out, creeping over the surface deck like flies over a corpse. Isabela moved to port while Glenn took bow and Hawke took stern; the others clustered around the door in the forecastle, weapons kept close. A wave of her hand to the boys on the docks and the ropes were cut. Another step done.

Her ears caught the sounds of footsteps, and Glenn returned with another man, one of Flynn’s crew. “He’s with us,” Glenn whispered, his attempt to stay quiet still harsh against her ears in the dead of night.

Flynn’s man nodded, but something felt off. Something in his eyes, too wide, his pupils darting. The shift in his posture, a twitchiness in his hands, then in the muscles around his mouth, and—

“Men! We’re under—” His shout decomposed into a gurgle as her knife slammed into his abdomen, but it was too late; the muffled yells now issuing from the berths were proof enough.

“So much for diplomacy,” Glenn muttered, drawing his sword.

“You’d better be as good with that sword as you are at arm-wrestling and making vows,” Isabela hissed, pulling her second dagger from its sheath.

The door to the berths crashed open, then the hatch to the cargo hold, and Isabela had enough time to wonder why things couldn’t just go right the first time before the deck was swallowed by combat.

The night’s silence shattered with cries of rage and pain, metallic shrieks of steel on steel filling the entire cove. Isabela put her back to Glenn’s, readying her blades as a group of Flynn’s crew rushed in, half still in their sleeping clothes. 

A blade arced toward her face. She brought her left dagger up to turn it aside, a twist of her hand sending it skittering towards the floor. Another swing, this time harder, the product of wild-eyed fear. She side-stepped it. Her attacker lunged, bringing him dangerously close to the railing as she spun away, and a kick to the back sent him overboard.

She could hear Glenn grunting with exertion behind her, fending off at least two other men, but more were coming her way and she couldn’t spare him another thought. They were green sailors with little experience fighting, she realized, knocking away each savage hit. No patience, no timing, just hacking, like they were trying to chop a winter’s worth of firewood. Probably were forced into night watch by the veterans onboard. 

One, two. He swung, too high. _Breathe_. Right dagger into his neck, a reflex, and Isabela cursed. More blood to scrub. She couldn’t see Hawke, couldn’t hear her, either, but wasn’t worried. They’d finish this fight and Hawke would find her, grinning, covered in blood and with a few knicks for Isabela to stitch up. That was her woman.

Another jack dead, clutching at the new red hole in his chest, as if that was going to help anything. Her arms ached. The rowing and rope climbing had left her sore enough, and every parry launched a shock of pain straight into her shoulder joints. She grit her teeth. _Get through it_. Exhaustion made her careless, and a poorly-dodged cut caught her near the wrist. Her whole arm spasmed and she nearly dropped her blade. She shook off the tunnel vision, the burning radiating from her wound. _Get through it_.

Three more of Flynn’s crew surrounded her. Then two as one fell screaming into the sea. Then one as she opened a gash in his mate’s throat. The last nearly had her, sending a vicious blow at her right side she couldn’t hope to defend against, not with her fingers locking up with pain and slicked with blood. But then he was skewered on Glenn’s sword, his own weapon clattering to the deck. 

And then there were none. Isabela looked around, pushed herself back to the present moment to make a quick headcount. Herself, Glenn, ten crewmen… Isabela’s heart stopped for a few beats before she saw Hawke emerge from the stern, her greatsword dripping red, but otherwise no worse for wear.

“Get into the berths and clean out anyone who’s left,” she ordered, fighting to keep her voice steady as fading adrenaline left her wanting to drop. “Make sure the lyrium is in the hold. If we’ve gone through all this shit for nothing, I’ll find Cormac Flynn myself and rip his eyeballs out.”

Her crew returned not long after. The lyrium was still there, safe and sound in its crates. As for the berths, a few cowards were dragged from beneath the beds, crying and moaning and claiming they were just swabbies, they didn’t want any trouble.

“Then I’ll let you scrub all the blood,” Isabela said, too battle-weary to have them killed. “And if you intend to turn on me…” She waved a hand to all the bodies littering the deck, some still groaning, clinging to the edge of life. “You’ll share their fate.”

They nodded fervently and scurried away to grab buckets and mops. At least if they pissed themselves, Isabela thought, they would already be cleaning.

It wasn’t until all the corpses found new homes at the bottom of the harbor that Hawke approached Isabela, eyeing the crimson bloom spreading across her forearm.

“How bad?” she asked, tense with concern.

“I don’t think you’ll have to chop my hand off,” Isabela replied. She had never wanted to sleep so badly in her life. “You?”

“I’m fine. _Really_,” Hawke added as a precaution, likely knowing by now the effect that particular phrase had on Isabela. “They weren’t trained soldiers. Apparently just very loyal to this Cormac fellow.”

The telltale crank of the anchor winch signaled their imminent departure. It would be all oars and rudder until they reached Second Chance and Retribution, then, with their crews split between the three ships, they could reach Hercinia by morning.

Glenn lumbered over to them, all smiles despite a limp and a gash across his shoulder. “Admiral! You ought to take a peek at the hold. I’ve never seen such a haul!”

She patted him on the back with her good hand. “Stick with me and there will be more where that came from, Captain.”

Her arm throbbed, but knowing she stood over a mountain of lyrium eased the pain. And another galleon to her fleet was simply a bonus, icing on the cake. She didn’t need the Armada. She could be her own woman with her own rules and have it all, all those things Castillon promised her. All those things she would never get while he and the Armada still held the end of her chain.

Maybe it was the thought of gold, maybe it was the fleeting remnants of battlelust, maybe it was the way Hawke was looking at her, but suddenly, Isabela felt so deliriously, wonderfully alive.


	2. Little Things (9:39 Dragon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another series of moments, this time from the year 9:39 Dragon. Please see the end notes for content warnings (due to spoilers).
> 
> The Stitches that appears in this chapter is not the same as the healer in Bull's Chargers. I'm just apparently not creative with my pirate names :)

**20 Guardian, 9:39 Dragon**

Isabela dropped the stack of mail onto her favorite table in the Full and By’s bar. The resulting thud was loud enough to turn heads.

“Do you have to do that every time?” asked the ever-suffering barkeep.

“I do,” Isabela replied. “It makes me feel important.”

Hawke eyed the massive pile. “I should’ve tried that when I was Champion. Maybe that would’ve made me feel better about it... or at least not like absolute shit all the time. Anything good?”

Each letter was tossed aside as Isabela checked the senders, and soon the table was covered with parchment. 

“Garbage... garbage... no, I’m not capturing the Queen’s warship... stupid... Glenn was able to get that lyrium to Orlais, good boy… ooh, herbal cock enhancement, nice—”

“Oh, I got one of those back in Kirkwall. ‘Special Sauce?’”

“That’s the one. Mm, that reminds me, we need to stop by Gloria’s. She’s got some new equipment in and she asked if we could review it.” Isabela paused as she neared the bottom of the stack. “Here’s a surprise! Look who it is.”

“Fenris! So he must have got your letter?”

Isabela had only heard whispers of Fenris’s existence since the last time she saw him, when he walked off her ship and into Antiva City. But the rumors of an elf with glowing tattoos slaughtering slavers like livestock could only go unnoticed for so long with a network like hers. Especially when his preferred mode of attack seemed to be by sea. She couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride; saltwater ran in his veins, and she had recognized it the first day they set sail.

Though their paths hadn’t directly crossed since Antiva, when she sent Dice out to raid a Tevinter vessel only to find its captain gutted and staked to the bow like some grisly Satinalia decoration, she figured it had to be Fenris’s handiwork. He never did have an appreciation for subtlety. 

It wasn’t hard to get a letter to him when she shifted her resources into tracking his movements. He tended to operate farther north than her fleet, for obvious reasons, apparently integrating himself into various legitimate crews as a means of transportation to his targets. He lurked around port cities in Tevinter, a deadly ghost, and that was where Isabela was able to find him, one of her men pressing a letter into his hand before fleeing, completely unnerved by Fenris’s presence and reputation.

She had offered him a spot in her fleet. Certainly her ships could give him more access to his prey, and he had the skills to assist her own less-than-legal causes. Mutual back scratching.

“Cutter said he gave it to him and about shit himself in the process,” Isabela said, breaking open the wax seal. “Let’s see if our spooky elf is interested in joining the fleet.”

Fenris’s handwriting was careful, ordinary, and widely-spaced, the penmanship of one still learning. Isabela smiled when she saw it, remembering when they sat in that grotesque commandeered mansion of his while she taught him to read.

Dear Isabela,

I hope this letter finds you well. Though your offer is generous, I’m afraid I cannot accept it. Killing slavers has proven an adequate enough source of income. Ransacking merchant ships wouldn’t be as satisfying.

The tip on Devon Custos is appreciated. I’ve felled a number of his ships but was not aware he remained in Ventus. I will need to pay him a visit.

I do not anticipate traveling to Llomerryn soon, but I will send a raven if that changes. I believe you still owe me a drink.

Please give my regards to Hawke.

Sincerely,

Fenris

“Talkative as ever, I see,” Hawke said when she finished reading. She folded the letter and handed it back to Isabela. “Seems a pirate’s life is not for him.”

“On the contrary, he _is _a pirate, whether he wants to admit it or not. You commit crimes on a ship, you’re a pirate. And, last I checked, murder is a crime, even if the recipients are wholly deserving. But Fenris wants to be the self-righteous, stick-up-his-ass sort of pirate, which is fine. Room for everyone on the high seas.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Maybe, but not surprised.” Isabela started to gather the disheveled papers, her only lifeline to her comrades, her friends scattered across the world. “I just miss him. I miss everyone from Kirkwall.”

* * *

**7 Bloomingtide, 9:39 Dragon**

They hadn’t planned on building a house. Not a real house, anyway. Not with a kitchen and a bedroom and a garden or any of that nonsense. It was supposed to be more of a shack; a place to offload the piles of souvenirs and other assorted loot beginning to clutter their quarters on Second Chance. Maybe a place to catch a few winks in between long stretches of travel or when the ship was docked for repairs.

Isabela picked the location. A quiet village called Obera, though it seemed more a scattering of houses than any proper settlement. Obera sat at the very end of Rivain’s peninsula, on its eastern shore, nestled in a grassy strip of land between the foothills and the ocean. It felt disconnected, isolated from both the rest of Rivain and the world at large. The ferry to Llomerryn, though, was an afternoon’s walk away.

It was perfect. A perfect place to stash things, Isabela reminded herself. Not to stay, not to live.

“Do you even know how to build a… building?” she asked Hawke, unwilling to use the word “house” to describe something that was absolutely going to be no such thing.

“Of course,” Hawke replied offhandedly, surveying the area.

They had wandered around Obera for the better part of a week, from its modest central market to its outskirts, the inhabitants growing sparser by the day, until Hawke found a small patch of land with no one in sight. Only the ocean, a stone’s throw away from where they stood, and the mountains behind them, a densely-forested green spine protruding from Rivain’s curved back. The grass beneath her feet was surprisingly verdant, not like the wispy stalks defiantly poking out of the dirt in other parts of the coast. 

“Okay, what do we need?”

Isabela had never built a house, or a ship, or anything, really. She had neither the talent nor the patience. But she wasn’t about to let Hawke go it alone. Even if they wound up constructing it upside-down and needed to start the whole process over, she couldn’t just stand there and watch.

Hawke stared up at the sky, thinking. “Wood. Definitely need that. And… nails? A hammer, I suppose, if you have nails. And, er…” Her voice faded into the distant crashing of waves against the beach, and she gave Isabela a bashful smile.

“You don’t know how, do you,” Isabela said flatly.

“I helped raise a barn once,” Hawke countered, then scuffed her toe into the dirt. “I mean, well... I watched the animals while the adults raised the barn. I was ten.”

Isabela pressed her knuckles to her forehead. “Maker, this is like when men think they can sail because they used to shuck oysters at the docks.” Or even better, when they thought they could sail because they had sex with a pirate captain.

“Do _you _know how to build a house?”

“Not a fucking clue. But it’s just a box, isn’t it? Four walls and a roof?” Isabela held her hands out in front of her, framing the potential building between her fingers.

“And a boat is just a bunch of curvy pieces of wood and some poles, I suppose.” Hawke’s smile was warm, her tone teasing despite a wounded ego.

“Point taken. What do we do, then? Unless Brutus secretly knows the art of construction.”

Brutus barked and nuzzled his head into her side, but Isabela wasn’t buying it.

The answer, of course, was to call on her crew. With eighty men, _someone_ had to know how to build a house. Building. Shack. Whichever. She swore one of them talked about building one for his missus and children. Jim, maybe? Or maybe it was his missus that was going to build a house for him. Knowing Jim, that was the more likely possibility.

Most of her crew had taken the ferry to Llomerryn during shore leave, but it wasn’t hard to get a letter out to the island before the day’s end. And maybe she made the summons out to be far more urgent than it ought to have been, but getting her sailors to abandon the pub required some dramatics.

The following morning, roughly sixty pirates arrived to an empty patch of grass at the edge of Obera, hungover and exceptionally confused. 

“Er… shouldn’t we be on the ship, Captain?” Bray asked, the end of his sentence nearly lost to a gargantuan yawn. “If we’re going to make it to Rialto for that score, I think we ought to leave soon, yeah?”

Isabela worked her tongue around the back of her piercing. “Yes, about that…” she said, and a chorus of groans went up from her crew. “There’s no score. We’re building a… thing. A building. Right here.” She gestured at her feet.

The grumbling grew louder, and the men glanced around at one another, exchanging shrugs and the occasional eye-roll.

“You’re telling me none of you lot knows how to build a house—_shack_,” she corrected, “for storing loot? Booty? What can’t fit on the ship? So, all you know how to do is sailing, drinking, and whoring, is that what it is?”

“Well, we _are _pirates,” came a disgruntled voice from the middle of the group.

Just as Isabela was ready to threaten keelhauling, someone stepped forward. One of the greenest of her crew, a boy she picked up from their last stop in the Marches… what was his name? Cedric? He was on the lowest of rungs, sometimes relegated to cleaning and helping haul sails, but mostly to staying out of the way.

“I’ve built houses before,” he said, staring at the dirt, hands jammed in his pockets. “Captain,” he added quickly, flushing.

Hooks, her boatswain, swatted the boy on the back of the head. “Fucking shit-for-brains swabbie! Shoulda kept your mouth shut!”

Isabela was a fair captain. Or at least, she thought she was. Good pirates get rewards. Bad pirates get punishments. It was a simple enough system, and one she would now have the chance to enforce.

“Oh, lovely! Cedric, my dear, you’ll be in charge of the men. Hooks, since Cedric will be busy, you can go swab the decks in his absence.”

Hooks’s mouth dropped open. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“That’s ‘You’re fucking kidding me, _Captain_,’ and no, I am not. If anyone else finds nailing some pieces of wood together too much to handle, you’re welcome to join our bos’n.”

That shut the rest of them up.

She called Cedric over. He might have passed for seventeen if she was being generous, his chin still an adolescent mess of pimples and peach fuzz. He had answered her request for shiphands in Wycome, and though he admitted to lacking any sailing experience, he had apprenticed as a shipbuilder, which was enough to land him a spot in her crew. And, for whatever reason, she found his shyness oddly endearing, though it did him no favors among a group of boisterous pirates.

“Y-yes, Captain?” he stammered. He was close to a head taller than her, but had hunched his shoulders so severely their height difference was all but invisible.

“You can look at me. I’m not going to bite. You’re too young for that, anyway,” she teased, and Cedric’s blush went from pink to scarlet, swallowing up the freckles on his nose. 

But he did look up, his eyes flicking from the ground to her face, pointedly avoiding anything in between. “I’m not sure I can lead them,” he admitted, glancing over her shoulder at the restless group of pirates. “They’re not going to respect me. I’m not old enough.”

“Let me tell you something, Cedric. I started sailing when I was sixteen. A year and a half after, I was first mate. I captained my first ship at nineteen. But only because the people above me gave me a chance to prove myself.” She stepped into the captain’s role, keeping their eyes locked, ensuring what she spoke would unerringly cross the distance between them. “Consider this your chance.”

As her words sank in, Cedric inadvertently stood straighter, prouder. He still looked every bit a boy, but on a ship, confidence was worth far more than the number of years one had managed to survive since birth. 

“Aye, Captain,” he said. It was the steadiest he had sounded since she hired him.

“So, what do we need to get?”

Cedric scratched the back of his neck, timidity once again starting to take over. “Well, you’ll need some wood, first…”

“Ha! Told you!” Hawke shouted triumphantly from where she stood eavesdropping several feet away. Brutus woofed his agreement.

They bought their wood, and their nails and bricks and all the other things Cedric said they needed. And a few barrels of rum, which Cedric neglected to mention but were declared necessary, regardless. Then they got to work. 

At first, it seemed only the threat of Isabela’s wrath could keep the pirates in line. She stood behind Cedric like a bodyguard, sending glares and sharp words toward any who talked back to the boy or shirked their duties. As the building went up, however, Cedric came into his own, putting weight behind his voice and checking in on the rest of the group to make sure everything was done properly, praising work done well and gently correcting mistakes. He had promise, she thought. Maybe he could do more than scrub the decks and pump the bilge.

And Hawke, Isabela noticed, was talking to Cedric, too, though never when Isabela was in earshot. That was the only explanation for the sudden appearance of a hearth for cooking. And then a frame for a bed. A table and chairs. Windows. And suddenly the shack was a house and Isabela didn’t know how to feel about it.

She didn’t know how to feel about it, yet she still went to Obera’s market and bought a mattress, and candles, and a pot for that hearth. She bought a rug for Brutus to sleep on and a book to read in case her own slumber proved hard to come by. And then she sat on the bed, their bed, in their house, and tried not to think about what it meant.

Her crew had left, once more retreating to Llomerryn’s pubs, the wages paid for the unanticipated construction work a balm for their irritation. There were no jobs lined up for them in the immediate future, but the rest of her fleet still ran from Nocen to Waking Seas, seeking opportunities wherever they arose. She had time to rest, if she wanted it.

Did she want it?

Hawke sensed her conflict. “We don’t have to stay here,” she said, sitting next to Isabela and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“I know we don’t,” Isabela said. “But I… do you want to?” Somehow, paradoxically, it seemed easier for Hawke to take the choice from her hands.

Trailing her fingers up and down Isabela’s arm, Hawke took her time before answering, as though she was carefully planning her words.

“We’ve been traveling since the chantry explosion, haven’t we? It’s been... what, a year and a half? Maybe…” Her voice shrank to a near-whisper, a cautious, hopeful suggestion. “Maybe it would be nice? Just for a bit.”

Maybe it would. “It’s not like we haven’t stayed in the same place before. It was just in an inn or on the boat.” Isabela played with her rings, switching from the two on her left hand to the three on her right, spinning and sliding. “I don’t know why this feels different.”

Three months in Llomerryn after Kirkwall, in their room at the Full and By. A month in Wycome’s Sullen Wench. Two in Antiva City in a nameless seaside inn. Three weeks stuck on Second Chance outside of Val Royeaux when they ran out of coin to secure a room. And others much the same, all those stretches of time when they had a designated place to return to each night, when they weren’t actively traversing the seas.

But those stretches of time were never like this. Never in a place they could fully call their own.

Hawke took Isabela’s hands in her own, stopped the restless fidgeting. “You say the word, and we’ll be back on the ship, okay? Promise.”

Isabela looked around the candlelit tiny space, their tiny house. It wasn’t so different from a room at an inn, she decided. A bed, a table. Her writing supplies. A bookshelf, already half-filled from the first batch of knickknacks they retrieved from the ship. Perhaps the hearth was different, but she couldn’t cook, anyway. She could barely see the ocean out the window, shrouded in darkness. She could hear the gulls squawking, though, shrill and tuneless. Everything still smelled like fresh wood, but that would fade into brine and sand, then wet earth when the rainy season started.

“Those boys worked hard. I suppose we shouldn’t let it all go to waste, should we?”

Curving her palm along Hawke’s jaw, she pulled her in for a kiss, because that was safe, that was familiar, _that_ was home. Hawke responded stronger than Isabela expected, a warm crush of lips and fabric fisted in hands that left Isabela almost reeling, that feeling of strings tugging at the end of a knot.

“Do you want me to take your mind off it?” Hawke asked, her voice pitched low.

It was tempting to say yes, to allow the promise of physical pleasure to overwhelm everything else. But Isabela knew it would only be a temporary relief. That knot would still be there when the high faded. 

She chose to untangle it herself. “Do you remember when I came back from Rivain? And I asked you what you needed from me, and you told me I just had to stay?” She waited for Hawke’s nod. “I think I… I think I need to do that again. To stop constantly looking for an escape route.” 

“What are you afraid of?” Hawke’s hands were back in hers, a meeting of calluses and scarred knuckles.

“I guess the whole concept of where we are?” Isabela waved a hand at the ceiling. “What this is? This sort of, I don’t know, permanence? Or... maybe I’m just afraid I’ll like it. But I trust you. I do. I want to try.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, you know,” Hawke said, and despite her joking tone, Isabela’s heart insisted on ricocheting off the inside of her ribs at the prospect. “We can take things one day at a time, the same way we did when you came back.”

One day at a time. That was what Isabela vowed when waking up in the same bed was still novel, still terrifying. And then, gradually, it became routine, comfortable, and mornings spent apart felt like a shirt put on backwards: bearable yet clearly incorrect. 

Isabela had always prided herself on her adaptability. A life as chaotic as hers demanded it. At any moment the skies could darken, the wind could pick up, and she would have mere seconds to scramble, to make the choice to batten metaphorical hatches or hoist all the sails to try and beat the storm. And she had failed. Often. Smashed up into bits and pieces, left clinging to flotsam, praying for a nearby shore to wash onto. That was normal. It had been normal from the moment she arrived into the world, red-faced and wailing while a hurricane shrieked outside the birthing room, her twin, her spirit.

But Hawke required a different set of skills. Loving her meant trusting blue skies instead of viewing every stray cloud as an impending tempest. Loving her meant seeing the ground in front of them not as quicksand, but as something solid, something they could navigate together. It was the opposite of chaos. It was stability, something Isabela had never learned to thrive in.

That would have to change.

“One day at a time, then. We’ll give this ‘domestic bliss’ business a go and see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Oh yes, bliss,” Hawke replied, eyebrows raised. She started to tick points off on her fingers. “Fixing roof leaks, finding our own food, no one else to do laundry… at least we don’t have to worry about freezing to death if we didn’t store enough firewood to last the winter.”

Laundry? Isabela shuddered. “That all sounds _immensely _appealing. I can see why everyone is always so eager to experience the joys of home ownership.”

Hawke continued to be preoccupied with natural disasters. “No blizzards, maybe, but you’ve got hurricanes up here. Lots and lots of roof leaks to patch up.” She grinned, looking positively delighted about the idea of fixing holes.

Isabela laughed and leaned forward to kiss Hawke again. Now it was unhurried, softer, and she had time to think about making tea in the morning and watching storms roll in from the safety of their porch. Trying to grow those red berries she always used to steal from neighbors’ gardens as a child. Decorating shelves and tables with overseas trinkets. All those tiny things that filled her with a pleasant, effervescent anxiety, like bubbles in a glass of champagne.

“Alright, you can go back to taking my mind off things, thank you,” she said, and Hawke acquiesced, capturing Isabela’s lips with her own for a third time, a fourth time, then a fifth, until Isabela lost track. She pulled Hawke onto her lap, a last vestige of control before she willingly surrendered.

In the hushed glow of candlelight, anointed in gold and red, Hawke removed Isabela’s rings, then her bracelets, then her necklace. The ritual complete, Hawke allowed her own necklace to join Isabela’s jewelry on the trunk next to the bed before kissing her again. Her pace was slow, almost lazy, fingers under Isabela’s chin keeping her head tilted up, her other hand tangled in long black curls.

There was a sort of comfort in it, this routine that didn’t feel routine at all. Smoldering embers instead of a blazing inferno. Not that they never had their evenings of fast, breathless, all-consuming passion. But Isabela found she loved these quieter moments, the ones that felt like sharing heartbeats.

Those fingers dropped lower, finding their way underneath the hem of Isabela’s shirt, then back up, tracing patterns along her back, tapping silent melodies across her shoulders. Isabela’s hands made wanderings of their own, more impatient, and Hawke’s shirt was pulled up and over her head.

No witty remark or other words, just a smirk and a swathe of goosebumps across newly-bared skin as Isabela brought her lips to Hawke’s neck. More breath than kiss, from the sharp corner of her jaw to the soft hollow at the base of her throat to her collarbone, until those fingers playing their songs skipped a few beats.

Isabela’s shirt was soon to follow, and with a palm to her shoulder, Hawke pushed her back onto the bed. The rush of night air across Isabela’s chest was quickly replaced by the warmth of Hawke’s body and mouth, a little harder, a little more insistent. A private thrill settled in the base of Isabela’s spine; she always knew how to stoke the fire, even when Hawke was fighting to keep control.

But fight she did. A thigh pressed between Isabela’s legs and those fingers teased the piercings in her nipples, a gentle tug on golden rings. The combination drew a groan from somewhere deep in her chest, muffled against Hawke’s cheek. Isabela could feel Hawke smiling, that proud grin when she knew she had the upper hand. Then Hawke’s head dropped down and her tongue replaced her fingers, and Isabela hissed through her teeth, her nails leaving tiny half-moons along Hawke’s shoulders.

Hawke had made good on her words—there was nothing left in Isabela’s mind but _want_, anything else obliterated by the tip of Hawke’s tongue dragging down the inside edge of her hipbone. She hooked a fingertip into the waist of Isabela’s pants, tugging them down just far enough to give her mouth access to more sensitive skin. Keeping her eyes open, she held Isabela’s gaze within her own, a potent reward for each practiced touch, every second spent learning Isabela’s body. 

Isabela lifted her hips, pushing into the heat of Hawke’s mouth against the juncture of her leg and torso, so close to where she needed it, praying Hawke would take the hint and remove the rest of her clothes. Fortunately, Hawke was in an obliging mood. A sharp-soft tickle of nails across Isabela’s thighs and the pants were off, Hawke’s own pair soon to follow, left to clutter that brand-new rug on the floor.

Hawke sat up, Isabela’s thigh trapped between her own. Isabela had to bite her lip when she felt the dampness of Hawke’s arousal against her leg—the only thing belying her composure. Those fingers ghosted down Isabela’s sternum, her waist, the lines like sand dunes on her hips, featherlight touches. And Hawke watched, observed the breathless anticipation of the woman underneath her. 

“I love you,” Hawke said, a bit breathless herself. 

“I love you, too,” Isabela replied, and she was only now aware of how quiet it was. No shipwood creaking, no rowdy bar down the hall. Only far-off waves and wind through palm fronds and her heartbeat in her ears. 

And then a gasp as those fingers slid inside her.

Unable to tear her eyes away, unable to even close them, Isabela let Hawke witness every reaction. Hawke approached lovemaking with an almost studious diligence, a cycle of experimentation and analysis. She moved slowly, deliberately, her strokes closer to caresses, each one building on the last.

With one hand grasping at Hawke’s back and another tangled in the sheets, Isabela was left desperate to share some of that delicious tension.

“Let me touch you,” she whispered, more plea than demand, because she no longer held any of the cards.

Hawke eased forward until she leaned over Isabela, her weight now on her knees and one elbow. “Please.”

With Hawke keeping her own hand still, Isabela had enough presence of mind to relish the feel of Hawke’s inner thigh against her fingertips, the contrast of soft skin over firm muscle, tense with expectation. She moved her hand up, slipping past slick curls. Hawke bit back a moan and flexed her fingers, unwilling to be bested, and that presence of mind, brief as it was, vanished into a fog of pleasure.

Isabela allowed herself to be lost in it, lost in her, an infinite ocean. They had memorized one another so thoroughly over the years it was like touching herself, knowing every spot, every movement that led to a catching of breath, a hissed curse. She loved it, guarded it. It was private, this knowledge, something for her mind, her hands, her mouth only. 

And she used that knowledge to her advantage, circling her fingers over Hawke’s clit with just enough pressure to draw out a soft groan without interrupting her tempo. They fell into a rhythm, an ebb and flow as each shifted between giving pleasure and receiving it. 

With no expectation of an end, they continued until Isabela felt awash in comfortable intimacy, until their breathing slowed, until Hawke signaled her satisfaction with a gentle touch against Isabela's wrist. 

Hawke half-crawled, half-collapsed next to her, a leg and arm thrown over Isabela’s body in a sweaty, relaxed jumble of limbs. She kissed the rim of Isabela’s ear, murmured sweet nothings into it, sleepy proclamations of love.

As exhausted as she was, Isabela couldn’t sleep until she freed the thoughts chasing their tails around in her brain.

“You’re really not nervous about any of this?” she asked quietly.

“A little,” Hawke admitted, and kissed her temple. “No matter how you look at it, it’s a big step, right? But honestly? It’s one I want to take.”

Isabela let those words sink in. The more time she spent alive, the more she realized she didn't really know anything at all. But loving Hawke was one of the few certainties of her life. And Isabela knew she wanted to be with her, in whatever way that happened to be. A step. A step they could take together.

“Me too,” she whispered, the last stubborn remnants of doubt finally loosening their grips and allowing her eyes to close.

For a few panicked heartbeats when she awoke, Isabela forgot where she was. She flailed against sleep’s reverie like someone drowning in a waist-deep puddle until the more intelligent part of her brain could catch up. This was their house, their bed. This was safe. Truthfully, it had been years since she had woken up anywhere that wasn’t, but old habits refused to die, and every new bed provoked the same reaction, those seconds full of fear.

She tried to time her inhales and exhales to Hawke’s slow, steady breathing against the back of her neck. It was unusual for Isabela to wake up first. Though Hawke slept like the dead, she tended to be up and moving at dawn’s first light, a time of day that only saw Isabela when she hadn’t snatched a wink of sleep the night before. And that was not typically a pleasant place to be, seeing sunrises from the wrong side.

But Hawke was here, and if Hawke was here, it was home, no matter if they were in a foreign country, a hundred leagues out to sea, or in a little house on the beach. Comfort began to wash back over her, gentle and heavy, and she rolled over, wondering if she ought to wake Hawke up with a few kisses.

Eyes closed, she leaned forward and was met with a swipe of something wet and smelly and decidedly tongue-like across her chin and lips.

“Ugh! Brutus!” she grumbled, his massive gray muzzle suddenly coming into her blurry, morning-fogged view as her eyelids flew open. He licked her again, this time across the cheek, nub of a tail wiggling violently even as she tried to dodge his affections.

Hawke’s head popped up from behind her mabari’s withers. “Stealing my morning kisses, are you?” she asked, voice croaky with sleep.

Brutus rolled onto his back, apparently willing to forgo further morning kisses for morning belly rubs. Isabela indulged him, because of course she did. He had her trained, the beast.

“A dirty old man, that’s what he is,” Isabela announced, scratching the thinning fur across his chest. “Doesn’t matter the species; they’re all the same.”

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Hawke threw on her robe with a yawn. “You want some tea? We have this lovely hearth to heat a kettle in; I don’t know if you noticed,” she said, smiling.

“Cute. Yes, I’d love some tea. Last night’s exertions have left me rather parched.”

Hawke snorted and started to walk toward the kitchen before turning around to give Isabela an impromptu kiss on the forehead. Then she left, Brutus trailing behind, shuffling on arthritic joints made stiff by morning’s chill.

Isabela burrowed back under the covers, too comfortable to get out of bed despite sleep now being firmly out of reach. She could do this. No, not just could. She _wanted _this. She wanted spring mornings with tea and cuddles with the dog. She wanted routine, a sense of normalcy. She wanted all those little things she swore she never would.

For the first time in her life, Isabela wanted to stand still.

* * *

**29 Solace, 9:39 Dragon**

“I can’t believe you’ve gone all domestic on me,” Varric said as their house came into view. 

The trip from Kirkwall to Llomerryn was a grueling one, even with stops along the way, and Varric had insisted on at least two nights on solid ground before taking the ferry to Obera. Isabela imagined his obstinance had less to do with shaky legs and more about having the chance to check in with his contacts on the island, but decided to keep those suspicions to herself.

“Why?” Hawke asked, fetching the key to the door from around her neck. “Jealous?” 

“That you get to live in a beach house while I’m stuck in Kirkwall? Nah.”

The door unlocked with a few well-coordinated jiggles of the handle and the key. Not that they particularly needed a lock; their home was isolated enough to avoid any casual looters looking for an easy score, and a proper thief wouldn’t be deterred by such mundane security measures. But Hawke liked having a lock on her door, so they had one, even if Isabela could pop it open blindfolded with one arm tied behind her back.

“It does lack that certain Kirkwall-flavored excitement, doesn’t it?” Hawke said. “No one trying to mug you on the way to the pub, no corpses rotting in the gutters, no serial killers…”

There was a half-second of silence before Varric spoke, blessedly quick to smooth over the rough edges of Hawke’s morbid jest.

“But that’s what gives the city character. It tells a story! Maybe one in the horror genre, but still.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Hawke asked, already rummaging around in the kitchen, doing her best to be a polite hostess. “We’ve got beer, and… beer.”

“That’s about as much variety as I’m used to, so a beer would be just fine, thank you.” Varric took a seat at their table, and Isabela realized they only had two chairs. After filling pints for the three of them, she pulled over the cask of beer and sat on that, instead.

“Oh, and I made some pie, if you wanted any,” Hawke called from the kitchen. “Couldn’t tell you the name of the fruit that’s in it, though; you’d have to ask Isabela.”

Varric traded glances with Isabela, eyebrows raised. “Okay, that bit about going all domestic? That was supposed to be a joke.”

Hawke returned to the main room, sans pie. “You act like I didn’t cook anything in Kirkwall. You were at my dinner parties just as often as anyone else, as I recall.” She shrugged. “I like doing it, so I do. Besides, if I didn’t cook, Isabela would have to, and nobody wants that.”

“Excuse you,” Isabela scoffed. “I’ve eaten nothing but galley slop or stolen scraps for most of my life, except for that brief stint in Antiva where someone cooked for me. I’m sorry I didn’t get to live on cute little farms where my mummy taught me how to be a good housewife.”

“Funny, I don’t hear you complaining about it whenever I make dinner. And my father was the one who taught me how to cook, for your information.”

Varric interrupted their bickering with a barking laugh. “Shit, you two are adorable. I can’t stand it.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and crossed the room, taking the second chair for herself and slinging her arm around Isabela’s shoulders. Isabela stuck her tongue out at her, a remarkably mature gesture that Hawke immediately copied.

“She just gets to chop things,” Hawke explained. “Last time she tried anything more than that, she made this goat monstrosity that left us both vomiting for a week straight.”

Isabela’s stomach lurched at the memory. How was she supposed to know how long goat had to cook? It was Hawke’s fault for being polite and eating it. And maybe Isabela shouldn’t have kept forcing mouthfuls down out of a sick combination of pride and denial, but she did, and neither of them could stand to eat goat since.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure Varric doesn’t want to hear about the goat monstrosity,” Isabela said, waving the topic away with her hands. “So, how are things in Kirkwall?” she asked him.

“Very smooth segue.” He chuckled, but it was only a brief flash of mirth before his expression grew somber. “Things are… well, you know how it is. Hightown is being rebuilt—slowly, maybe, but it’s happening. But whenever talk of repairing Lowtown comes up, suddenly there’s no money for it. They’ve hardly recovered from the Qunari attack and that was, what, five years ago?” Taking a sip of his beer, he shook his head in disgust. “But you can bet we’ll have a new chantry built before the last of the rubble is cleaned out of Lowtown. And that’s nothing compared to what happened in the Gallows.”

“Why?” Hawke asked, and Isabela couldn’t help but feel a guilty suge of frustration. The last thing she wanted was for Hawke to get wrapped up in Kirkwall’s spiral again.

“That red lyrium shit. It keeps cropping up in corners of the fortress. You ever try to get rid of something that you can’t touch? And that slowly drives you mad even if you _don’t _touch it? It’s not fun. Cullen has his templars working shifts trying to clean it up, but the stuff is like a bad rash. It just keeps coming back.”

“None of the dwarves you know have any ideas?”

“I’ve reached out to a few contacts, yeah, but it’s been slim pickings. I’m not especially popular with those of my people who still live underground, you know. All that ‘purity’ bullshit.” Varric gave a short, bitter laugh, then rolled the glass around in his hands, suddenly looking uncharacteristically anxious. “Actually, I was hoping you could reach out to Bethany.”

“Bethany?” Hawke’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she began to pick at a stray hangnail. “Something tells me she’d be in no hurry to think about anything related to our expedition.”

“True, but the Wardens as a whole have been _very _interested in what we found down there. I can’t get in touch with them to see if they’ve learned anything, but you can.” He grimaced. “Look, Hawke. I want to get that shit out of my city. And I’m running out of ideas. The people that have been exposed to it for too long, well… you saw what happened to Bartrand. We can close off the Gallows if it comes down to it, but what if it starts showing up in other parts of the city? We don’t know anything about it… how it spreads, the extent of what it can do, how to get rid of it...”

“You’re scared.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, staring into his beer. ”Yeah, I’m scared shitless, to be honest. What can I say? I don’t like things I can’t understand. Or things that people much smarter than me can’t understand.”

Isabela drank her beer in silence and thought about how much she hated Kirkwall. Two years away from that horrible fucking city, and here it was, creeping back into their lives, its claws once again reaching for Hawke’s throat. What did it matter if red lyrium devoured Kirkwall? Why did Varric have to care so damn much?

If Hawke shared any of Isabela’s concerns, she didn’t show it. “Alright. I can try, but no promises,” she warned. “My only contact with my sister tends to come every few months when she sends me a letter that basically amounts to, ‘I’m still alive!’ I can’t even send a letter back most of the time because she doesn’t seem to stay in one place for more than a day.”

“Well, that’s all I can ask for.” Finally, he turned to Isabela, as though he just remembered she was also in the room. “But what about you, Rivaini? You’ve been strangely quiet. How goes the whole admiralty thing?”

“You should know. Half my jobs have had your little hands all over them,” she said, and it came out harder than she meant, words sharpened with worry.

Varric deflected her barb with a smile. “I like to take care of my friends. And if taking care of my friends means we both get paid, all the better.” He paused, head tilted and brow creased. ”Are you mad about it?” he asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

“I like the money, but I’m not sure I like how it all feels like a complicated ploy to keep an eye on Hawke.”

Isabela could feel Hawke looking at her. They had talked about it—all of Varric’s associates meeting her in the Full and By or acting as contacts in port cities, never asking about Hawke outright, but knowing her status, regardless. Some of them were likely in the fleet, working on one of her ships, funneling information back to Varric. Isabela was torn. Loyalty to her friend and a lust for coin held one end of the rope, and that uncomfortable feeling of being manipulated held the other. And with Varric now in front of her, the latter was pulling hard.

“You don’t know the kinds of things they’re saying about her back in Kirkwall,” Varric insisted. “Not good things, I can tell you that much. They still blame her for supporting Anders and abandoning the city, and given how many Circles have been trying to make rebellions of their own, I’m guessing their opinions aren’t isolated.”

A spark hit the tinder. “We didn’t abandon anything! The situation was completely hopeless! How can those bastards blame Hawke for any of it?”

“Because people always need someone to blame, and the Champion makes an appealing target, especially when she’s not there to defend herself. So, fine, you guessed it. That’s why my people have been passing you tips. We help each other, and I get to make sure Hawke’s okay.”

The flames caught, roaring into a blaze, even as the hand on Isabela’s shoulder squeezed, an attempt at reassurance that barely registered through her anger. 

“Do you _really_ think I would ever let anything happen to her?” she said, gripping her beer like she meant to strangle it.

Varric put his hands up. “Of course not,” he said, calm and steady, trying to mollify. “Do you think that keeps me from worrying anyway?”

Hawke stepped in. “I know you’re concerned. You both are concerned,” she corrected, turning to address Isabela as well. “But no one likes feeling like a marionette. It’s not like you’re the only one who has contact with us. Can’t you just send letters like everyone else? Why all the subterfuge and complication?”

“Letters get intercepted. Why do you think I always use nicknames and initials when I write to you? This is bigger than either of you know. Circles all over Thedas are threatening to dissolve, the Divine is barely keeping hold of the Templar Order… people talk about a full-scale war breaking out, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s already happening. And I don’t want you—either of you—getting caught up in it. You’ve both been through enough shit, haven’t you? So if I can help you live a nice, quiet life on a beach, I’m gonna do it.”

“But you can drag her into Kirkwall’s problems?” Isabela retorted.

“I can speak for myself,” Hawke said gently. “I’m not going to Kirkwall. And I don’t think Varric is asking me to do that. Are you?”

“That kind of contradicts that whole nice, quiet life thing I just mentioned, doesn’t it? No, I’m not asking you to come to Kirkwall. Stay here and stay safe. If you can ask Bethany about the red lyrium, great. If you can’t, I’ve got other avenues I haven’t fully explored yet.”

There came a soft shuffling sound and a grumble from the bedroom. Brutus lumbered into view, apparently roused from a nap by their squabbling. Upon smelling Varric, he broke into an almost-trot, shoving his snout in Varric’s face and covering him with kisses.

“I missed you, too, buddy,” he said, giving the mabari a rigorous scratch behind the ears. “See? He doesn’t like it when we argue.”

“You’re the best diplomat in Thedas, aren’t you, baby Brutus?” Hawke cooed. “Look at that face. That’s a face that can end wars.”

Isabela rubbed her hand along the end of Brutus’s back, towards his tail, prompting a furious stump-wag. “That’s a face that wants pie, that’s all. He’s a simple creature with simple needs.”

“Sounds familiar,” Hawke said, nudging Isabela in the ribs.

“All we require in life is food and affection.” Isabela leaned over and rested her chin on Hawke’s shoulder. “If you give my bum a rub, maybe I’ll wiggle it for you.”

Trying to drink and laugh at the same time sent Varric into a sputtering fit. “Maker’s balls,” he choked out. “I missed you lunatics, too.”

“And we missed you, Varric,” Isabela said, unable to hold onto her irritation any longer. “Even if you are a nosy little shit who can’t keep out of anyone’s business.”

“What can I say? It’s all a part of my charm. I’ll have some of that pie, too, if Brutus is. Gotta see how all this domesticity is working out for you, Hawke.”

* * *

**5 Harvestmere, 9:39 Dragon**

Isabela tamped her shovel down on the freshly-piled dirt, still damp and fragrant from yet another storm that morning. Finely textured, mostly sand. Easier to dig than wet clay, but the task still left her shirt plastered to her body and beads of sweat dripping off the end of her nose, little relief in air that felt more akin to boiling water. 

At least the sweat hid the tears, she thought. Not much of a consolation.

She glanced over at Hawke, who leaned on her own shovel with the heavy weight of grief perched on her shoulders. Hawke was in a similar state: the thin white linen of her shirt a dull pink where it clung to her skin, ashy smoke from the day’s earlier fire staining her face, her hair in thick wet clumps against her forehead. But her eyes remained dry, just as they had since the morning, when she cradled Brutus in her lap as he died.

It hadn’t been unexpected. Brutus was old, Hawke said, at least fourteen, and had been in declining health the past few months. His eyes had grown cloudy, his ears deaf to all but the loudest sounds. When he tried to jump on their bed the same way he always had and his legs refused to cooperate, Isabela knew what was coming, even if she had never owned a dog herself. But Hawke only sighed and built him a set of steps. And then later, when that was too much for him to manage, she slept on the floor beside him, nested in blankets. 

He went peacefully. For that, Isabela was grateful. She had prepared for something worse, more drawn-out and painful. Her profession demanded some knowledge of the darker side of herbalism. A concentration of hemlock would be enough to ease the process. It didn’t grow in Rivain, but it did in Antiva with wild abandon, and Isabela’s connections made getting a vial trivial. But it proved unneeded. They found him halfway across the Veil in the morning when they awoke, and in the space of a few sluggish, labored breaths, he was gone.

Hawke hadn’t sat around to mourn. She was off the floor in seconds, before the body had even cooled, claiming she had to get supplies from the market to give him the proper send-off. Isabela hadn’t argued. This was how Hawke was. In the minutes after Leandra died, Hawke’s only concern seemed to be reporting the killer’s crimes and resulting death to the authorities, despite Aveline’s assurance that she could take care of it. It was only later that she could allow herself to collapse. So Isabela let Hawke do what she needed to do, privately grateful for the chance to cry in solitude.

Brutus had two owners, Hawke had said: a Fereldan and a Rivaini. It seemed only fitting to combine their funerary customs. Fereldans, like all Andrastian nations, burned their dead. Once outside, the mabari was covered in cloth, placed on a pyre, and surrounded by sprigs of rosemary and coconut oil. Isabela lost track of how long it took the body to burn down to mostly ashes and bone. They didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood and watched yet didn’t watch, not truly. She thought Hawke might say a prayer, something to the Maker, but she was silent. 

Isabela offered a few of her own, though she wasn’t sure who to pray to. Seers tended to handle such things, after all, and each invocation was tailored to the deceased. So she ran the gamut, requesting every spirit and deity she could think of to guard Brutus’s journey beyond the Veil. Hopefully one of them would be willing to listen.

After that came a choice. Isabela was Rivaini, but she was also a pirate, and pirates buried their own at sea. But she could see the exhaustion lining Hawke’s face and knew setting sail would be too much to ask. With this realization, Isabela had picked the other option, making her own trip to the market while the embers still glowed. She returned with a large clay pot, an urn called _aarlakhira_. The potter had offered condolences for Isabela’s loss, and Isabela had lied and said it was for her aunt. The use of an _aarlakhira _for a dog was likely sacrilegious. Isabela didn’t care. Lesser humans had been buried in one.

Typically, Rivaini waited several days before the final burial to allow the deceased spirit time to fully depart. But none of this was typical, and Isabela didn’t believe in such superstitions, regardless. They doused the remnants in seawater and placed them into the urn, then began the backbreaking process of digging.

Rivaini funerals were riotous celebrations for the deceased. The more jubilant and rum-drenched, the better, as it was meant to start the grieving process on a high note. Fereldans, apparently, or at least Hawke, were far more somber and sober. Isabela found it suited her better. She didn’t want to put on a smile, didn’t want to think of all the happy moments she had with an animal she never expected to care so much for. She wanted to be sad.

“How are you holding up?” she asked Hawke, bracing for a hollow “I’m fine,” but Hawke spared her.

“Sad,” was all she said, and that was enough. “Is there anything else we have to do?”

“No. Burying the _aarlakhira _is supposed to prevent the spirit from trying to return to the body. So… this is it.”

They continued to stand, joints aching, the sweltering heat of late summer suffocating any further attempts at conversation. Isabela wasn’t sure what to do. She needed a bath. She needed comfort, to hold Hawke in her arms and cry it out together until all the tears in her body left to join the muggy air. But despite the weather, she could almost feel the frost rolling off of Hawke, the frigidity of a woman trying desperately to turn herself to stone. Hawke wasn’t ready to grieve.

“I should… go take a walk,” Hawke said. “I hate standing still.” As if to prove her point, she fidgeted in place, right foot to left, her hands crawling over each other like ants on a dropped piece of fruit. “I know you have business on the island. You can go. I’ll be fine.”

There it was. Isabela stifled the urge to sigh. “I don’t want to leave you alone.” 

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone, either. It was true; she did have business that needed to be handled sooner rather than later. Between building the house and caring for Brutus, Isabela’s fleet had largely run without her physical presence since spring. Several of her captains were scheduled to meet with her at the Full and By for a briefing. Worse, the job was time-sensitive. She couldn’t delay the trip.

“It’s okay.” Hawke closed her eyes, and still no tears dared to fall. “He was just a…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, and her head dropped towards her chest.

“No he wasn’t. He wasn’t just a dog.”

“He wasn’t,” Hawke agreed, staring at the slightly protruding pile of dirt. 

Isabela stared at the pile, too, a little off-color from the surrounding land, flecked with bits of chopped grass. Dogs were pests in her country, little better than rats. They gathered in flea-infested mobs, snarling at too-curious passersby, snatching food from market stalls. To call someone a dog in Rivaini was the ultimate insult. Men had lost their lives for it. It was what her mother had called her.

And yet here she was, crying over a dog.

She sniffed and brushed the tears away with soot-gray hands that smelled of soil. “I won’t be gone long. I promise.”

Hawke let her shovel drop, clanging to the ground. Crossing the space between them, she pulled Isabela into a hug, sand and sweat crushed together, and Isabela could feel Hawke trembling in her arms, beginning to crumble. But then it was gone, the fractures patched up.

“It’s okay to cry,” Isabela said softly, gently, and pressed her lips to the curve where Hawke’s neck met her shoulder, kissed salt and grit, like the beach had made a home in Hawke’s skin.

“I know,” Hawke said, deliberately steadying her breathing, and Isabela could feel each careful inhale pressing against her chest. “I just can’t yet. It’s like my body isn’t ready to do it.”

It was less a failure of the body and more an obstacle of the mind, but Isabela didn’t need to say it. She drew back, and there was her mountain in front of her again: unwavering, unyielding. Isabela could put her own need for comfort aside for the time being, take a leaf out of Hawke’s book and pack it away. She could do it for Hawke’s sake. They could open it when they were both ready.

With one more kiss goodbye, she began the long walk to the ferry.

The trip to Llomerryn, the business with her captains, and the trip back passed in a fog, time suspended. She assumed she adequately transmitted her orders; the words were forgotten as soon as they left her mouth, as if spoken by another. And then she wandered out of the Full and By, walked down alleyways she knew by heart and into a building near the edge of the docks, one owned by a friend. She hadn’t planned it, but the thought caught in her mind the moment it was born, spinning and thrashing, and it would not settle until she fulfilled it, obeyed it.

Hawke was at home when Isabela came back the next morning. Isabela hadn’t slept, and it appeared as though Hawke hadn’t either, her arid eyes ringed with purple, the boots still on her feet caked with mud. Hawke sat on the bed, elbows on her knees, and stared at the floor, that empty depression in the pile of blankets tucked into the corner.

They did not speak, too weary for it. Isabela folded the blankets on the floor, telling herself she would wash them later, then fetched a fresh set for the naked bed. Silently, she knelt and unlaced Hawke’s boots. Boots that had probably seen miles and miles since the day before. Tugging them off, she set them aside. Then the shirt, then the pants. Hawke offered no resistance or protest, allowing herself to be stripped bare. 

Scattered rays of mid-morning sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating Hawke’s body in harsh lines of light and shadow. She remained sitting, immobilized by exhaustion. She half-watched Isabela remove her own clothes, her gaze vacant until she noticed the bandage across the left side of Isabela’s ribs. Then, slowly, realization fought through grief, through fatigue, and Hawke had to know there was a fresh tattoo under the dressing, a nineteenth tally mark for another of Isabela’s fallen crew. Hawke couldn’t have known the color, but she could guess. Another red slash to join the one for Bones.

Isabela crossed the room in time to catch Hawke as she broke into wretched, unrestrained sobs. Hawke’s grief poured out of her in shuddering gasps, her tears slipping down Isabela’s collarbone to dampen her chest. Easing Hawke down onto the bed, Isabela pulled the blankets over them both, heedless of the sunlight streaming through the windows. They needed sleep. 

She let Hawke cling to her as the flood of sorrow reduced to a trickle, ran Hawke’s smoke-scented hair through her fingers. They were both in need of a bath, but that could come later. Everything else could come later. Isabela closed her eyes.

Stitches had given a low whistle when she asked him for another tally mark. “Another one?” he had exclaimed, gathering his tattooing supplies. “Who was the poor bloke?”

“A dog,” she had answered, her muddled brain unable to concoct anything but the truth. Stitches was Rivaini, a Llomerryn native, and would likely share his countrymen’s view on the animals, but she couldn’t lie to him.

He had been quiet for a time, mixing his tiny pot of red ink, before he spoke. “It’s because of that Fereldan girl, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.” 

So much was different now because of that Fereldan girl. All the things Isabela thought she knew, all the lessons learned from traveling Thedas—the things that seemed so large and important, that she could arrogantly hold over others—all of them paled in comparison to what she had gained, the things that changed when she allowed herself to share her life with another. 

Stitches had set his needle to the sensitive skin of her ribs and began to drive the ink in, but that wasn’t the pain causing tears to slide down her face.

“He was a good boy,” she said, and Stitches nodded, though he couldn’t possibly have understood.

* * *

**24 Haring, 9:39 Dragon**

For a moment, it seemed like Bethany wasn’t going to hug her. The three of them stood at Obera’s dock, Bethany still in her Warden uniform, looking like she hadn’t slept in a year, barely resembling the young woman Isabela met in Kirkwall eight years ago. There was that Warden hollowness to her eyes, that weight dogging every movement, a sharpness that was never there before. She had changed, and Isabela wondered if it was a change for the better.

But then Bethany smiled brighter than the sun and embraced her so fiercely Isabela worried she might have cracked a rib. And yet, struggling to breathe never felt so good.

“It’s good to see you, sweetness,” Isabela said, standing on tiptoe for her chin to clear Bethany’s shoulder. She pulled back, studying the fresh lines across Bethany’s forehead and the plum-colored half-moons under her eyes. “My baby sister is all grown up and saving the world.”

“Pretty sure she’s my baby sister, not yours,” Hawke said, receiving a hug of her own.

“She asked me if I’d be her sister while we were sailing away from Kirkwall, and I said yes. So you’ll have to share,” Bethany said.

Hawke intertwined her fingers with Isabela’s. “Do you just collect siblings wherever you go?”

“Well, I never had any,” Isabela said, then shrugged. “And I’m greedy. So yes, I just gather brothers and sisters like souvenirs. Still looking for a father, though, so if you see any promising candidates, please send them my way.”

“If she’s a sister to both of us,” Hawke reasoned, screwing up her face, “that means we’re related, and that’s _really_ going to put a damper on our sex life.”

Isabela made retching noises. “It’s a symbolic relation! Please don’t put a damper on our sex life; I couldn’t bear it. Get it? ‘Bare’ it?” she said, waggling her eyebrows for emphasis while Hawke sighed.

Bethany clamped her hands firmly over her ears. “La la la, I’m not listening to this!” she yelled, picking a random direction and marching away. “I’ll just go back to the Deep Roads!”

“You can’t go back now!” Isabela called after her. When she caught up, she pried Bethany’s hands away from her ears, taking a deep delight in the younger Hawke sister’s pout. “We bought another chair just for the occasion! And we baked a loaf of bread. Well, Hawke baked the bread. I supervised.”

As they walked the few miles to their house, Bethany removed her gloves, then her bracers, then her gambeson, shoving them all into her pack. With sweat starting to drip down her forehead, she glanced around for witnesses—clearly an old habit—before raising her left hand, the one not holding her staff. Her fingers turned blue, then white, glazed with a covering of frost. She ran her hand over her neck and chest, sighing with relief.

“It’s so hot here,” she said, fingers fading back to pink. “I don’t know how you can stand it. The Bannorn is covered in snow so deep right now I have to call up a jet of fire just to get from one town to another.”

Hawke laughed and brushed her own damp hair out of her eyes. “Stand it? I don’t. I just sweat a lot and whine about it. And then I dream of taking Bela to Ferelden in the dead of winter as revenge.”

“It’s the dry season!” Isabela exclaimed. “It’s not even that hot. You’re just weak southerners.”

In the half-year since they built the house, Isabela and Hawke had managed to turn it into something that might have resembled a home. Every wall, shelf, and table groaned under the weight of various trinkets, things bought, found, or stolen from everywhere in Thedas: tesserae coins from Minrathous, bottles of wine and wooden figurines from Treviso, painted porcelain bells from Hercinia, a framed pair of Duke Antoine’s knickers, artwork from Val Chevin, and more.

It still felt a bit empty, though, a bit less like a home during the past few months. It was something Bethany seemed to notice after a few seconds of waiting for barking and the thunder of paws across the floor.

“Brutus is… he’s not here anymore, is he? Oh, Marian. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. He lived a full life, and it was his time,” Hawke said, her voice a bit thick. She cleared her throat. “Would you like something to drink? We’ve collected quite the assortment of alcoholic beverages. Beer, wine, whiskey… everything but rum, I think.”

Bethany took a seat at the table and waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever you want is fine. Wardens drink concoctions that would turn your stomach inside out, so I’m not picky.”

Hawke chose wine this time—a lovely red from Orlais, one Isabela had filched from a wayward server’s tray in Jader. It was a good vintage and certainly wouldn’t turn anyone’s stomach inside out. Isabela wondered what other simple comforts Bethany had needed to give up in the Wardens. It didn’t seem fair. It never had. From what Isabela knew of Hawke and her sister, Bethany was the one who would’ve given anything to live in peace and privilege in the Amell estate. She would have thrived amongst nobility in a way Hawke never could.

Instead, Bethany slept in darkspawn-infested holes while poison sang in her veins.

Sipping the wine slowly, Bethany closed her eyes and allowed a tiny smile to grace her lips, and Isabela would have crawled underground with the darkspawn herself if it meant Bethany would never have to stop smiling again.

“Can I ask what you’ve been up to? Or is that secret Warden business?” Hawke teased, sitting across the table from her sister and laying a tray of bread and various cheeses between them. 

“I wish it was interesting enough to be a secret. We kill darkspawn and rebuild things that the darkspawn destroyed and wait for another Blight. Sometimes we go underground to kill more darkspawn, or over to Orlais to talk with the Wardens there about... killing darkspawn. Maybe the more senior members at Weisshaupt have exciting lives, but not the ensigns.”

“But there’s more important things than killing darkspawn,” Isabela declared, raising her wine glass. “Are you getting laid on a regular basis?”

Bethany blushed, and it was almost like she was twenty again. “I… well… I don’t know if I’d call it ‘a regular basis,’ but there have been a few someones to, er… keep me company.”

Now it was Hawke’s turn to cover her ears. “I don’t want to know about this. I _really _don’t.”

“Tell me about your lives, then, because mine is unbelievably boring and the parts that aren’t are not fit to be shared with my sister,” Bethany said, swatting Hawke on the shoulder.

“You better share those parts with me later, then,” Isabela said. “And we’re boring, too. I mean, look at us. We live in a little house on the beach and bake bread. Sometimes we collect sea shells or go to the market.”

Bethany shook her head, smiling. “I never would have imagined it. But that’s not _all _you’ve done since I saw you last, right? I thought you mentioned traveling in your letters to me.”

“We did,” Hawke said, grabbing a chunk of bread from the platter. “A year and a half, all over Thedas. Hence the souvenirs.” She gestured around them. “We decided to build this place to store things and as a temporary rest stop, but we just sort of…”

“Stayed here,” Isabela finished. “I don’t know if we were really meaning to, but it’s… it’s nice. I still have a fleet to run, so I make trips back and forth to Llomerryn, and sometimes I’ll go out on the ship to run jobs, but there’s… I don’t know. It feels good to have a place to come back to.”

It felt strange to admit. Embarrassing, even. Bethany had known Isabela as an impetuous and fiercely independent woman, and now Isabela had just conceded to loving something entirely incongruent with who she was when they had first met. But Bethany looked at her with understanding, with a longing that spoke volumes. It was what she wanted, too, and no longer had. A home.

“So, you’ve told my sister you love her by now, surely?” Bethany asked Isabela, an obvious attempt at diversion.

Isabela played along, hoping to keep Bethany’s mind off darker topics. “Yes, she’s well aware.”

Hawke glanced between them, confused. “I feel like I’m missing some context here,” she mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“The night before we got to Amaranthine, Isabela and I sat on the deck and talked, because neither of us could sleep. I asked her how she felt about you, and she didn’t say anything for a long time, and it was really very cute, you know. And then she said...” Bethany dropped her voice to a stage-whisper and tangled her fingers together while staring at the table. “‘I love her.’”

“And then you started shrieking like a fucking banshee.” Isabela felt her face growing warm, and she couldn’t blame the wine.

“I was excited!” Bethany insisted, caught in a fit of giggles.

Hawke frowned. “Wait, wait. Before we landed in Amaranthine? _I_ hadn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet!”

“I know, but she asked!” Isabela jabbed her finger at Bethany before turning to Hawke. “I can’t even tell you how smitten I was, just being on a ship again and having you there with me. It turned me into a complete sappy fool.” She watched Bethany shake with silent laughter, knuckles futilely pressed to her lips. “And _you _will be happy to know Aveline had been trying to force me to say it before I was ready for literal _years_, but you were the first I told.”

“You realize you’re the best kind of love story, don’t you?” Bethany said, eyes sparkling. “When someone has to get dragged kicking and screaming into it? And now look at you! Oh, I can’t wait to tell Finley—”

A cacophony of howling and table-pounding interrupted Bethany’s comment. She clapped her hands over her mouth as if to force the name back in, but it was too late.

“Whoooo is Finleeeey?” Isabela sang, planting her chin on her hands and batting her eyelashes at a rapidly reddening Bethany.

“Yes, this feels like very important information, my darling little sister,” Hawke said and followed suit, her eyes boring holes into Bethany’s head.

Bethany took a long drink of wine before speaking. “He’s one of the newer Fereldan Wardens. Just went through the Joining last year. He’s been… a good friend,” she said, but the dreamy smile on her face seemed indicative of far more than that.

“You realize if he wrongs you, we’ll have to kill him,” Isabela said, and Bethany’s eyes widened.

Hawke was quick to add, “Not kill him. That’s a little extreme. But, you know, we could rough him up a bit.”

“Oh, like you ‘roughed up’ Bryson back in Lothering? He had a black eye for two weeks!” Bethany accused.

“He called you stupid, remember? He deserved far more than a black eye,” Hawke countered, and Isabela nodded her agreement.

“Well, Finley’s not like that. He’s a good man. You won’t have to beat him up. It’s not… it’s not easy, you know? What we have to do. I can try to be like you,” Bethany said, looking at Hawke, “and put on a brave face and act all glib about it, but it’s… horrible. I never wanted to save the world. That was always you or Carver. I just wanted to be normal, and live a normal life. Have a husband and a family. The Wardens aren’t afraid of magic, at least. They see it as just another tool, one that can be used for good or ill. But I…” Her eyes glistened as she stared at the table. “I just want this. What you have. I’m jealous, and I don’t want to be, because I know it’s not your fault, but I am.”

Hawke reached out to put a hand on her sister’s arm. “Bethany… I would’ve traded places with you in a second. I never wanted this for you. I swear I did the—”

“The only thing you could have. I know. I can’t hold it against you anymore. It’s not like I would’ve preferred dying. Maybe at the start I did, but I was too upset to think clearly. It’s not… it’s not all bad, really. And I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. I have a purpose. I can help people. I’m safe from the templars, which is more than I can say for most mages these days. It’s not ever what I expected my life would be, but I’ve adapted. And I’m happy for you, Marian. You deserve this, after all you’ve been through. You both deserve this.”

She absently swirled the dregs of her wine around in its glass, looking so young and wistful, her mind somewhere else, somewhere far away.

“It’s strange… sitting around this table, drinking. It almost feels like we’re back at the Hanged Man, doesn’t it?” Then her expression hardened, and she was a Warden once more. “But I know you didn’t ask me here just to have wine and tease me about boys.”

Hawke put her own mask on, and Isabela felt a bit like a stranger, like an infiltrator at a war meeting.

“Have you been to Kirkwall since we left?” Hawke asked.

Bethany shook her head. “No. I know some of the other Wardens have, but I’ve just been in Ferelden or Orlais since then.”

“Varric came here a few months ago and said there was red lyrium popping up all over the Gallows since Meredith’s death. The same thing we saw during the expedition. Nobody in Kirkwall knows how to get rid of it. He was hoping the Wardens did.”

“If he thinks I have any idea what it is, he’s mistaken. I know it’s not like regular lyrium, but that’s it.” A line formed between her brows. “The Wardens have a lot of secrets. The First Warden at Weisshaupt keeps secrets from the Warden-Commanders, who keep secrets from the Senior Wardens, who keep secrets from the Warden-Ensigns, and we keep secrets from the recruits. So maybe those higher up in the Order know what red lyrium is and what it does, but we’re so decentralized, especially when there’s not a Blight. I don’t even know who the First Warden is.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” Hawke said. “I told Varric there was a good chance you wouldn’t have any new information.”

Bethany chewed on a corner of her lip. “Hmm. Actually, I might have an idea. There’s a Senior Warden in Ferelden I could try to contact. We met in Amaranthine. He’s one of the friendlier Wardens I’ve met, so if anyone in the Order could tell me about red lyrium, it would be him.”

“I didn’t know there were any Senior Wardens from Ferelden,” Hawke said. “Didn’t they all die in Ostagar?”

“The Senior Wardens did, but some of the new recruits made it out. One of them survived the Battle of Denerim and apparently earned himself a promotion. His name is Alistair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings for this chapter: Alcohol use, sexual content, death of an animal**


	3. Annulment (9:40-41 Dragon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last series of vignettes, from 9:40 to the start of 9:41 Dragon.

**13 Bloomingtide, 9:40 Dragon**

Obera’s market was nothing like Llomerryn’s equally sprawling and dubious _Anahia_, but it had a smaller, more honest charm of its own. The market streets radiated in a spiral from the town hall like octopus tentacles, confusing tourists and sending them darting between stalls and stands instead of following the tacitly understood route of the locals: start in the center, then up the north-pointing street, then counterclockwise around the spiral.

As a coastal city, Obera’s economy centered around sailing. A massive ropewalk stretched from one end of the village to the other, where lanky young men and women trotted back and forth between crank and fixing point, hooking thin lengths of twine to be twisted countless times into halyards, brails, and clewlines. Obera rope was renowned for its strength and durability in harsh conditions at sea, and the Oberans at the market knew it, every other stall dominated with loops and coils, from slim running rigging to massive mooring lines.

Sail lofts also clustered around the village, and their products sat folded and clean in their booths, hawked by sellers trying to outdo one another in grandiose, contradictory claims of lightweightedness and fortitude. Unlike the rope, Isabela preferred to go to Llomerryn for her sails, but she wasn’t about to tell the Oberans that. Rivalries between the mainland and the island were legendary and longstanding; the Oberans saw Llomerryns as unruly, treacherous pirates (which was true), and Llomerryns saw mainlanders as stuck-up, stodgy traditionalists (also true). 

Of course, it wasn’t all sailing merchandise. Potters displayed glazed pieces of every color and design just out of reach of clumsy hands and careless children. Platters of cacao and coffee beans, cauldrons of bubbling _faaswa_, and the occasional goat or pig for sale made the market nearly indistinguishable from any other in Rivain.

The woman trailing behind her, however, was quite the oddity. Not that foreigners were completely unheard of on the mainland, but they tended to be Antivans. Maybe a stray Marcher or Tevinter. But Fereldans were positively exotic, and Hawke attracted curious, barely-suppressed stares every time she ventured into the village proper. Admittedly, the amount of turned heads had steadily reduced in the year since they had built their house; the tall, pale woman who lived on the beach with the islander was now a regular sight amongst the locals, less a mystery and more a target for good-natured teasing.

At first, Hawke was too hesitant to wander into the market on her own, concerned about her fumbling Rivaini. A reasonable fear, Isabela could concede; unlike Llomerryn, mainlanders weren’t typically fluent in the King’s Tongue unless they were merchants making frequent sales across borders. But Hawke was a quick learner, augmented by her gregarious nature. With Isabela filling the gaps, Hawke struck up conversations with everyone, stumbling through regional slang and innuendos with a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor, trading a few lessons in her own language for those who asked.

They had fallen into a routine during their time in Obera: every few days, Hawke, Isabela, or the pair would make the walk into town, picking up supplies and foodstuffs. Hawke was a dutiful shopper, penning a list in her incomprehensible chicken scratch and refusing to deviate from it. Isabela, in contrast, preferred a more freeform style, grabbing whatever happened to tickle her fancy that day, that second, like a jackdaw in a jewelry shop. Often, she would end up returning home with nothing she originally intended to buy. When she accompanied Hawke, she served as an agent of chaos, reducing Hawke’s carefully curated lists to mere suggestions and throwing random items into their baskets whenever Hawke was suitably distracted.

And that morning, true to form, Isabela steered Hawke toward her favorite jewelry seller despite protests that their list contained nothing but food.

Rhihal was a constant fixture at the market, owning a coveted stall on the north side of the spiral. Close to her fifth decade by Isabela’s estimation—if Rhihal’s frequent talk of her young grandchildren was any indication—and a businesswoman for most of those years, Rhihal quickly sussed out Isabela’s love of all that glittered from her first visit to the market. A fast friendship developed, with Isabela serving as both a buyer and an occasional seller if her raids turned up any pretty baubles. Rhihal was shrewd enough to not ask questions, but she did haggle mightily, and Isabela had often left her booth spending more or earning less than she knew she should. It never bothered her—good conversation made up for any absent coin in her pockets.

Flanked by rows of silver and gold, turquoise and malachite, Rhihal peered out from behind necklaces hanging like vines from bamboo pegs. She was a small woman, her feet dangling above the ground as she sat on a tall stool, but her presence was enormous: in a finely-textured dress the color of sunrise and with jewelry sparkling over every inch of exposed skin, she was just as colorful as the gemstones she hawked. But her smile always outshone all of it.

And that smile leaped to her face when she noticed Isabela and Hawke, though it was slightly tempered, fragile, and her gaze seemed focused somewhere beyond where Isabela stood, as if she were distracted. Still, she greeted the pair with her usual exuberance, the sound of their names like the blast of a battle horn, filling the avenue and turning heads.

“There you are!” she bellowed in the King’s Tongue, already rummaging through a box next to her stool. “I have been waiting all week for you, islander. I suppose you were too busy being a hooligan to come see me, hm? The big, bad pirate cannot come to the market like a normal person to see a friend. For shame.” With Isabela thoroughly chastised, she swiveled to Hawke. “And you, southerner! _Zu daragaia ahaztun_.”

_You missed your lesson_. Isabela wasn’t aware that Hawke had any lessons with Rhihal, and apparently, neither did Hawke.

“_Awe_,” Hawke apologized, bowing her head. “But… what lesson?”

“Your language lessons!” Rhihal pulled out a gold clasp seated with a sapphire the size of a quail egg. “Or did you think we were only having friendly conversations in Rivaini?”

Hawke blinked several times. “I… yes?”

“You need to teach her better, Isabela.” Another pass through the box, and several rings joined the bracelet on the table.

Isabela found she could not look away from the jewelry. “Well, I try, but… _en igemae ez-egin_,” she muttered, but Hawke picked it up.

“I do too listen!” she protested. She also eyed the rings and bracelet, no doubt aware Isabela was once again in danger of blowing their entire budget on trinkets instead of food.

A fact Rhihal was also no doubt aware of as she placed the final piece in front of them: an extravagant necklace, fit for a queen and dripping with emeralds and pearls; it was no wonder Rhihal was so impatient to show it off. It was excessive, it was ridiculous, and Isabela wanted it.

“Hawke...”

“No.”

“But it’s so pretty! You never get me anything,” Isabela pouted. She wrapped her hands around Hawke’s arm, preventing any escape attempts, ready to sulk or beguile for as long as necessary.

Hawke heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I just got you earrings two days ago.”

“As I said… you need to teach her better,” Rhihal remarked, brows raised. “You do not deny a Rivaini their jewelry.”

“And you being a jewelry seller is a happy coincidence, I’m sure,” Hawke said flatly, batting Isabela’s hands away from the necklace. “Kirkwall’s templars pressured me less than the two of you.”

Like a cup placed over a candle, Rhihal’s smile extinguished. She dropped her eyes to the table, looking at the jewels, then past them as she rolled the necklace’s string of pearls between her fingers. Her mouth twitched as if she wished to speak, but she pursed her lips instead, keeping her words to herself.

Hawke glanced between them. “Did I… say something wrong?” she asked, the threat of a potential faux pas strangling her voice.

Rhihal shook her head, the long pendants of her earrings jangling against her neck. Isabela could see the older woman fighting to compose herself. It was worrying; Isabela had never known Rhihal to be bereft of something to say, to be anything less than an inferno of a human being. But now she seemed a guttering flame, and when she finally spoke, it sounded like ashes.

“You have not heard of Dairsmuid.” A statement instead of a question, as if Isabela was supposed to have any idea of the goings-on in the nation’s capital.

“Dairsmuid?” Isabela asked. “What happened?”

“The Circle…” Rhihal trailed off, grasping in a foreign tongue. Failing, she resorted to Rivaini, a word that tore Isabela’s heart from her chest: “_Bisaatun_.”

Hawke’s fingertips found the edge of Isabela’s wrist, an instinctive reassurance. “What does—” she started to ask.

“Annulled,” Isabela said sharply, and immediately felt a pang of regret—Hawke couldn’t possibly have known that word. She tried again, softer: “The Circle was... annulled.” 

The reality, the weight of it swung on a pendulum. Just as it was about to sink in, her mind flinched like hands to a fire. Dairsmuid was both the seat of power and the seat of Andrastianism in her country. A city of noble pretenders paying lip service to a foreign god. Even their Circle was a sham: a few promises for the Maker, for Andraste, some hollow words to make their conquerors happy while their mages continued to practice everything the Chantry feared. They spouted the appropriate rhetoric while the tattoos on their faces branded them as heretics.

To complete the charade, Dairsmuid was the only place in Rivain where templars were welcome. And this, apparently, was how they repaid her people’s hospitality.

Hawke broke the silence. “Your daughters... are they all right?”

_Oh_. Isabela remembered, and the pendulum lurched back, accompanied by a sickening wave of regret. How could she forget Rhihal’s daughters lived in Dairsmuid?

“They are not mages,” Rhihal said, though her relief seemed blunted. “But many of their friends were. None were spared.”

Outrage twisted hot and bitter in Isabela’s chest. “I don’t understand. Dairsmuid’s Circle was never what I’d call orthodox, but that was an open secret. They were never a threat. Why now? Why _them_?”

Or, perhaps, why _us_. Was she so different?

Rhihal smiled sadly, bending the swirls of dark blue ink along her cheeks. “There is war outside our borders,” she said, “and wars always come for Rivain, whether we be on a side or not. But we are a strong people. We move on. So I am here in this market, selling these necklaces and bracelets, and I will be here until someone puts a sword to my neck for the sins of another.”

Isabela doubted Rhihal would go quietly if it came to that. She would call every demon from beyond the Veil at the first sight of a templar. Obera would be swallowed by flames before a sword could be pulled.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said. “It’s…” She circled her fingers over Isabela’s wrist, over that notch of bone just above the hand. “There’s not a fitting word in either of our languages, is there?”

Hawke would try to blame herself for this, Isabela knew. She always did. Despite their isolation, news of the war between templars and mages filtered through—bits and pieces Hawke clung to, used as weapons against herself. Even if, as Isabela suspected, the conflict had no true spark, no singular cause, Hawke replayed every step in her mind, from the moment she landed in Kirkwall to the moment they fled, the remains of the chantry smoking behind them. She searched for mistaken trust, for errors in judgement, every one another lash in her self-flagellation.

“There is not,” Rhihal agreed. “But I do not blame the southerners for this. To judge an entire people for the actions of some is how these terrible things happen. Rivain will endure.” Coyly, she set the bracelet and rings back in the box, knowing they were a lost cause. “Now, I have saved this necklace for you, islander. Do you want it?”

“You know me,” Isabela said. “And you know I do. How much?”

“Nothing. You can take it.” Rhihal pushed the necklace across the table, her smile now a fraction brighter. “Bring me something pretty the next time you are out on the seas causing trouble. That will be payment enough.”

“Of course. If something shiny happens to fall into my hands, I know where to bring it.”

Rhihal placed her palm over the top of Isabela’s hand as she reached for the necklace. “Take care of your own, _enwan_,” she said, solemn as a burial, and Isabela could not meet her eyes. “You may hide on a beach, but war will always find you.”

They walked away, and Isabela couldn’t help but wonder if those in the Circle thought they could hide, too.

* * *

**28 Bloomingtide, 9:40 Dragon**

The Full and By’s bar was unusually empty, and for that, Isabela was grateful. She wasn't interested in fighting a horde of drunken sailors for a table. She wasn't interested in anything, really, except maybe a pint and a nap. Any conversation would prove pointless. It was a constant stream of the same word from everyone’s mouth—Rivaini and foreigner—for the past two weeks. Bartenders, pirates, soldiers… even the fishermen, not especially known for their interest in world affairs, gathered together in front of their market stalls to discuss it in hushed tones.

_Annulment._

She wanted no part in their debates. Would the events in Dairsmuid convince the last of the Circles to rebel? Would the Templar Order break away from the Chantry? And what of the Seekers, who were apparently the ones behind the butchering? What did it matter? People killed, people died. And many more would die before all this nonsense sputtered out. There was no point in worrying herself sick about it.

Taking a moody pull of her ale, she inspected the most recent batch of letters splayed out on the table in front of her, a vivisection of parchment and ink. Her fleet continued to prosper without requiring her constant physical presence, and the letters reflected it: successful scutting of rival ships, cargo holds packed with lyrium diverted to her ever-growing list of contacts, enchanted weapons from Orzammar or Tevinter finding new owners willing to express their gratitude with gold.

For the past three years, she had played both sides of the war. Swords for templars, staves for mages, lyrium for everyone. And everyone was buying. With the Chantry losing its grip on both factions, she no longer had to limit her merchandise to Circles only. Small bands had less coin to spend, perhaps, but their numbers were large and their need endless.

The thought that she could have supplied the forces behind the annulment wormed its way through the barriers in her head like blood in a cobblestone street.

She took the requests from Sers Paxley and Conall and turned them over, facing their words against the battered wood of the table.

A letter sealed with the Grey Wardens’ griffon, feathers and talons in thick red wax. Could be Bethany. Or that senior Warden she mentioned. Alistair. Isabela had wracked her brain trying to remember if there were any other Wardens that night at the Pearl and came up short. If she had seen this Alistair, she never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. He had yet to send any correspondence, but Bethany seemed confident she could convince him to divulge information on red lyrium. Not that Isabela particularly minded if he didn’t. The less tying Hawke to Kirkwall, the better. She tucked it into her bag, unopened, hoping it was from the only Warden she cared about.

One more. A small square of parchment, folded and secured with a dark blue circle of wax. No stamp, no other identification. Her name on the front was not written in any recognizable hand. Frowning, she cracked the seal. Her eyes immediately skipped to the bottom of the letter, hungry for a name. When she saw it, crammed below an elegant, flowing “Sincerely,” her jaw went rigid, clamped tight enough to ache.

Dear Hawke and Isabela,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get a letter to you. Being on the run hasn’t lent itself that well to maintaining friendships. I wish I could tell you where I am, but I can’t risk this letter falling into the wrong hands. I’m safe, at least. I can say that much. 

I heard about what happened in Dairsmuid. Maybe this tragedy, horrific as it was, will finally force the rest of the Circles to rebel, and—

“Oh, _fuck_ you, you son of a bitch!” 

With a snarl, she ripped the letter in two, then again, and again, miniscule scraps fluttering from her hands, victims of her fury. She ignored the confused glances from the few patrons around the bar and stared at the bits of paper now cluttering the table, the ache in her jaw spreading to her temples.

How dare he. They spared him, sheltered him, even when the rest of Thedas wanted him dead. They risked their lives to protect him. Hawke shouldered the blame while he ran off, too cowardly to be a martyr. And now, after three years, he thought to contact them, and his only concern for the massacre in her country—one that he helped cause—was how he could twist it to fit his stupid, self-righteous revolution. 

It didn’t matter what the rest of it said. She collected the other letters into her hands and left, abandoning Anders and the fragments of his hollow words.

* * *

**19 Justinian, 9:40 Dragon**

“You’re upset,” Hawke said.

Isabela leaned her elbows onto their table. “How can you tell?” she said. “I’m always cranky in the morning.”

“I can tell. You’ve been quiet lately, and _that’s _always worrying.” Hawke smiled at the teapot in her hands, then glanced up to make sure Isabela caught the jest. “You want to talk about it?”

_Not really_. In the time since she received Anders’s letter, Isabela’s mind had been all dark clouds and rain, periods of overcast skies interspersed with violent storms. It was no wonder Hawke had noticed the bad weather.

“We had a letter from Anders the last time I went to the island.”

“How nice of him to write after all these years,” Hawke said dryly, placing two teacups on the table. “Where’s the letter?”

“I read about half of it and tore it up,” Isabela admitted. “He mentioned Dairsmuid, and all he had to say was that he hoped it ‘fueled the rebellion’ or some shit. There wasn’t even anything about us, just him and his cause. It… made me angry.”

She watched Hawke carefully fill the cups with _ihe_, the warm, comforting scent of cinnamon and cardamom permeating the damp sea air. The teapot and cups, decorated with wild red swirls and black streaks, were local, purchased from Obera’s market. There was something so delightfully odd about it—the way Hawke slipped into life here, her transition seamless in a way Isabela never would have imagined. Hawke still held onto her Fereldan heritage in ways: she couldn’t stand the stifling heat of Rivain’s summer and insisted on feeding every stray dog in Obera, but she had become like Isabela in the years since Kirkwall, a woman of the world, a borderless mix of cultures. 

“Well, that… sounds like Anders,” Hawke said. “I still would’ve liked to read it for myself, especially if we’re not going to hear from him for another three years.”

Fixing Isabela with a stare somewhere between curious and accusatory, Hawke dropped two heaping lumps of sugar into one cup and one smaller lump into the other with the automatic, practiced motions of one who has fixed tea for her lover every morning for years. 

“If he’s only interested in using tragedies for political gain, I’d rather not hear from him at all,” Isabela muttered. It was shameful, this frustration. Anders was their friend at one point; she couldn’t hate him, but she felt pulled in that direction regardless, tugged into a spiteful mire.

“Why do you care all of a sudden? I asked you about the annulment after we talked with Rhihal and you just shrugged it off.”

Hawke tipped a stream of coconut milk into the tea, turning it from a deep reddish brown to gold. The sweeter, lighter cup went to Isabela, the other stayed in front of Hawke, steam curling around her nose as she brought it to her lips.

“Because, I…” Isabela ran her fingertips over the delicate handle of the cup. “I don’t know why I care now. I didn’t know anyone there. I don’t even know anyone in a Circle. And it’s not like I could’ve done anything about it, right? We both agreed to stay away from any of the fallout after Kirkwall.”

She raised her eyes from the straw-colored pool of tea to Hawke’s face, seeking understanding, agreement. They both wanted freedom. Hawke admitted as much when they were still in the Waking Sea, that wretched city fading to the west. And maybe it was naive to think they could avoid feeling the shockwaves of what they left behind, but running back to the center of it was madness.

“But we’re still profiting from the war,” Hawke said pointedly. “Maybe not directly, but we’ve been selling to both sides.”

“You think I don’t know that? Fuck, I probably supplied the swords that killed them.” Isabela’s tea rippled with tremors. “Do you know what happens when the Right of Annulment is invoked? Everyone dies. Even the children. Don’t want them turning into abominations, I guess,” she said bitterly. “And you know what else? I bet the non-mages in their families were murdered, too, since we don’t believe in stealing kids away from their homes just because they can use magic.”

The sarcasm cut deep, close to home, and Hawke’s next sip of tea was likely a purposeful distraction from the retort leaping to her tongue. She set the cup down, painfully slow.

“Would you be this upset if it were Ferelden’s Circle?” she asked. “They tried to annul it ten years ago. Or even the Gallows?”

A valiant attempt at reason, but Hawke was far away from the point of contention, and Isabela had to mimic her tea-sipping diversion to avoid letting any indignation slip. Perhaps Hawke could get around in the Rivaini language and pour _ihe _like a nativeborn citizen, but the sting of Dairsmuid was keenest to those steeped in the nation’s history from birth. She couldn’t expect Hawke to know.

“It’s not the same,” Isabela began, struggling to aim her ire solely at the Templars instead of the woman sitting across from her. “It wasn’t even a proper Circle, not like you have in the south. Honestly, you’ve seen the kind of magic we do here. Shit, Hawke, you had it done _to_ you! You think the Chantry understands seers? You think the Divine cares that everything she preaches about possession is a steaming load of bullshit? No.” She shook her head. “This wasn’t about demons or putting down a rebellion. This was about sending a message, the same way it was in the Storm Age when they slaughtered us for refusing to worship their god.”

Hawke wrapped her hands around the teacup, red and black enamel peeking out between her fingers. It was a long while before she spoke.

“Okay, I think I understand a bit more now. It’s just…” An anxious drumming of fingertips against the cup. “It doesn’t feel right to hide here while this is all happening. Maybe we don’t know anyone in a Circle, but we know mages. And they’re at risk as long as this war continues.”

“Wars happen. Isn’t the entire country of Orlais killing each other right now? We’re only two people. Two powerful, impressive people, of course,” Isabela added, and Hawke smiled, “but how much influence do we really have? And before you ask, I’m not interested in blowing up any buildings to get that influence. You’d need to lead an army. And maybe we’re leaders, of a sort, but…”

“We’re not those kinds of leaders. I know. And I don’t want to be. But I also don’t want to be the sort of person who jams their fingers in their ears and closes their eyes when things go wrong. I saw enough of that in Kirkwall.”

There was that earnest worry, nestled in the lines between Hawke’s brows and in the pursed corners of her lips, and the vengeful fire burning in Isabela’s heart cooled. Her sweet, stubborn Hawke. She could claim to want peace and quiet until the sun rose in the west, but Isabela knew she would need to spend just as long keeping Hawke from diving headlong into every catastrophe Thedas had to offer.

Strangely, she found she didn’t mind the prospect.

“Hawke…” She reached across the table to pry Hawke’s restless fingers away from the teacup and into her own. “Don’t go marching off into oblivion to try and fix the world.”

“But you’re angry. _I’m _angry,” Hawke insisted. “Are we just supposed to sit and stew in it? Rage and moan about how terrible everything is and then oh, we have to feed the goats and do our laundry, best ignore it all?”

Hard words, but the delivery was tempered, smoothed by the strokes of Isabela’s thumb over Hawke’s knuckles. Isabela sighed. “Yes? Maker’s balls, you think I’d have survived this long if I let every tragedy control me like that? Sometimes you just… have to focus on making sure the goats are fed and your clothes are washed, even if things are falling apart around you. Because that’s all you can do. So, yes, I am going to rage and moan about it for a bit, and then I’m going to move on. I’ve already diverted the fleet’s resources away from the most radical templars. We don’t need their coin, and it eases my conscience to know we’re not the ones supplying them.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Probably not much else. For either of us.”

They drank their tea in silence made heavier by muggy morning air. Isabela liked her _ihe _drowned in cream and sugar, like a hug in a cup. So different than how she took her alcohol: straight whiskey her favorite, each sip a harsh and burning slap. Hawke teased her about the contradiction the first time she made tea for both of them, when Isabela kept nodding at the sugar, saying, “Add more.” But then Hawke told her it made sense. Isabela was both sweet and brutal, warm in private and brash in public. Tea and whiskey.

And Hawke had made tea every morning since, blends from Rivain and Antiva and Nevarra, one of those simple gestures of love she was so good at. As for herself, she took all but the strongest brews black. Honest, open. Easy. And every time Isabela woke up to see Hawke tip-toeing around the kitchen, hopelessly trying to avoid making too much noise, she fell in love all over again.

She squeezed Hawke’s hand, letting her anger slip away. Hawke smiled against the rim of her teacup and squeezed back three times, a secret code they shared, a substitution for three words, the ones Isabela used to fear more than anything. 

Love was so much quieter than she expected it would be.

Isabela wasn’t a complete stranger to it, of course. But her previous experience with love wasn’t at all quiet. Her first love was loud, wild, and doomed from the start. The kind of love that makes poets salivate. The only possible sort of love between a cynical teenaged widow and an idealistic, wide-eyed young man.

It was bound to be different this time. She knew that. And while there was no shortage of midnight passion and pounding hearts and other nonsense Antivans wet themselves over, loving Hawke necessitated a distinct definition. 

Love was in all those simple gestures. The tea, the storm-watching, that scraggly thicket of tiny red berries they managed to coax from the earth. The way Hawke embraced her when she came back from tending to her fleet, arms tight around her shoulders, like every time could have been the last.

It was new. It was something Isabela never realized she needed.

Their moment of reverie was broken by a distressed bleating outside the window. Apparently, it was time for breakfast.

“Ah, I believe I need to feed the goats. How apt,” Hawke said, a wry smirk twisting one side of her mouth.

Isabela leaned back in her chair and groaned. “Does that mean I have to do laundry? Shit.” 

* * *

**20 August, 9:40 Dragon**

Pirates, on the whole, were atrocious singers. Not that such a detail stopped them from trying. Sailing was dreadfully boring, after all, and boredom and desperation could turn even the stodgiest sailor into an artist. Once someone started a verse, others tried to follow the meter and melody with their own, each more ridiculous or bawdy than the last, until an unavoidable breakdown occurred, sometimes hours later. When the laughter died down, they would start anew. 

Isabela had joined in many a shanty over the years. “Andraste’s Mabari” was always a favorite when she had Fereldans on board, though the poor dog inevitably suffered a terrible fate if the crew included any Orlesians. “Long-Armed Pete” frequently devolved into verses about the length of another of Pete’s appendages. And likewise for its counterpart, “Big-Eyed Sue,” similarly well-endowed south of her neck. “The Chivalrous Shark,” “The Rum Made Me Do It,” and “‘Twas No Peg Leg” were all popular around Thedas, though the course each song took changed from ship to ship.

None of those matched the song currently assaulting their ears at the Full and By, however. It appeared to be a back-and-forth between a group of Rivaini and another group of Antivans, both sides attempting to out-insult each other. The Rivaini sang about an incompetant sailor named Marzio, whose name was immediately shortened to “Marzi,” a word that came dangerously close to the Rivaini _maarze_, a childish euphemism for male genitalia. Marzio spent his time alternating between crying and whoring, neither of which were particularly conducive to sailing. 

Not to be outdone, the Antivans concocted their own stereotype of a Rivaini pirate. This one’s name was Alano, feminized to Alana by the second verse, though the intended effect was minimized: the Rivaini language did not have the same grammatical constructs, and even if it did, comparing a man to a woman was considered a compliment, not an insult. That didn’t stop the Antivans from turning Alano into a drunken, spineless fool who needed to ask his wife permission to piss over the deck railing.

Over fifty stanzas in, and Isabela was ready to murder the lot of them.

“Idiots!” she yelled, loud enough for Hawke to hear her over the din, hopefully loud enough for some of the pirates to hear, too.

Ignoring her, the Rivaini launched into a new verse, this time about Marzi’s ship running into a light drizzle. His precious leather boots now wet, he collapsed onto the deck in a sobbing heap. Accompanying the jeers of Antivans came the scrape of chairs across the floor as they rose to their feet, preparing to defend their nation’s honor.

When the Antivans brought Alano’s mother into the shanty, Hawke grabbed Isabela by the arm and hauled her up the stairs just as the first punch was thrown.

“I realize our countries have been rivals for ages, but they could stand to learn something from each other,” Isabela grumbled. “Crying and respecting women are not undesirable traits in a man!”

The screams and thuds and sounds of shattering glass reduced to a dull roar behind them as they climbed. Isabela clutched her latest mail delivery in her hands. The bartender had shoved it at her over a dozen partially-filled flagons of grog, the look on his face one of utter despair. 

“Where are we going?” she asked. “There’s no way there are any rooms available, not with that bunch downstairs.”

Hawke grinned, fox-sly. “Isabela, I’ve never known you as someone who cared about being in places you’re not supposed to be,” she teased, nudging doors with her foot to see which rooms weren’t locked.

“Are we… _sneaking _into another person’s room?” Isabela hissed, widening her eyes and rounding her mouth in mock-horror.

“Hush!” Hawke giggled and pulled Isabela into an empty room, barely holding on to their drinks with her free hand.

Isabela closed the door behind them and dragged the bedside trunk in front of it. If the room’s owners wanted in, they would have to work for it. If there _were _owners, anyway. The room was still pristine, waiting patiently for some drunken pirate to stumble in after a night of boozing and singing and fighting. They would probably vomit on the floor and shit the bed. Maybe steal the extra set of blankets. Really, it was for the best that she and Hawke were here instead. They might tousle the sheets a bit, but that was it.

With that thought at the forefront, she dumped the letters on a table and prowled over to Hawke, who had the presence of mind to set their cups down before Isabela yanked her into a hard kiss.

“You know,” Hawke forced out in brief spaces when Isabela’s lips weren’t on hers, “I brought you up here so you could read your letters in peace.”

“How considerate of you.” Fisting a hand in Hawke’s hair and tilting her head back, Isabela brought her mouth to Hawke’s neck, fluttering pulse beneath her tongue. “I thought you just brought me up here to fuck,” she whispered, and she felt Hawke shiver in her arms.

Laughing, Isabela stepped back, leaving a breathless and bemused Hawke in her wake. “But I can go read my mail first,” she said, then turned to retrieve her letters from the table, an extra dose of swagger in each step.

“You’re cruel,” came Hawke’s voice behind her, a whining pout.

“I know,” Isabela answered, leafing through the stack for something interesting. One of the letters caught her eye: a neatly folded bit of parchment, her name on the front in a delicate, loose hand, bordered by sketches of leaves and flowers.

Hawke spied it from across the room. “Is that from Merrill?” she asked.

“Unless my captains have also decided to start doodling foliage on their letters, I think it must be. Come here and read it with me.”

Merrill’s letters were always haphazard affairs, with sentences ending and starting off-kilter from one another, as if she had gotten distracted in those half-seconds after each period. When she remembered to use periods, anyway.

Dear Hawke and Isabela,

Thank you for the gift!

It’s a very lovely knife, and I know Isabela says a woman can never have too many knives

But I bet you could, couldn’t you? If you had so many knives and you had no place to put them? And what if you tripped and fell? It could be dangerous, then, having so many knives, which defeats the purpose of having them in the first place

Maybe I’ll keep this one at home.

And it was made by the Dalish in Rivain? I wish I didn’t get so terribly seasick because I miss you both so much, and I know you can’t come to Kirkwall, or you shouldn’t come to Kirkwall, because it’s not safe, but I do miss you 

I know I said that last time (and every time) but it’s true.

And thank you for the offer to stay at your house! But I promise I’m okay here. It’s really not any worse than it used to be now that the templars and the guards are working together—well, except for the red lyrium in the Gallows, but I don’t go there 

And I suppose the mages are still fighting the templars here, but it doesn’t usually reach the alienage, and when it does, I can help everyone hide.

I wish the Wounded Coast had a dock

Because then you could sail here without actually going to Kirkwall and I could see you without getting on a boat.

Please write back soon! I want to hear more about the goats.

Love, Merrill

P.S. Oh, that’s right, your plants! If the berries are anything like the felangra the elves harvest, it needs partial sunlight. If it gets too much sun, the leaves will turn brown

P.P.S But I’ve never seen it growing by the ocean, so maybe there’s more salt in the ground there? You might need to water it more

P.P.S. Or less, because now I remember you said it rains a lot in Rivain. If it’s drooping, but not too much, and the leaves are yellow but not dry, then maybe don’t water it so much. I’m sorry. Plants are tricky. But I hope this helps!

“She really is the most delightful person in Thedas, isn’t she?” Isabela said, folding the letter up and tucking it into a pocket for safekeeping.

“Makes the rest of us look like complete bastards, honestly,” Hawke replied. “Do you think we could sail to the Wounded Coast, like she said? We could drop anchor and just, I don’t know, swim to shore?”

“Did you forget what happened the last time I got within swimming distance of it? I love Merrill, but not enough to destroy another ship.”

“That’s fair.” Hawke eased Isabela towards that perfectly-made bed, hands already wandering. “You want to fool around a bit before we go back downstairs to crack a few skulls?”

Isabela offered no resistance, letting Hawke tip her backwards onto starched sheets. “Oh, Hawke,” she sighed blissfully. “You know me so well.” 

* * *

**2 Haring, 9:40 Dragon**

“You really need to stop growing. This is ridiculous.” Isabela squinted at Cedric, feigning suspicion. “Are you secretly Qunari or something? You realize it might cause some tension between us if you are.”

Cedric blushed and hunched his shoulders as though it canceled out some of his towering, reedy height. “Sorry, Captain. I’ll, er… try not to grow any taller. And I don’t think I’m Qunari?” He scratched at his chin. “Well, I never knew my father. Could he have been one?”

Isabela could almost feel Dice rolling his eyes beside her. “It was a joke, Cedric. Qunari can’t breed with humans, anyway. As long as you let me order you around, you can grow as tall as you like. It worked for Dice, at least,” she said, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder.

“She was your captain, too?” Cedric asked him. 

“Aye, and a terrible one. Don’t listen to anything she says and you’ll survive.” Dice let out a bark of laughter at Cedric’s barely-restrained gasp of shock. “Gods, you are green, aren’t you? What backwater southern village did you rescue this one from, Bela?”

He knew her too well. “Wycome, but you’re from a little fishing town south of that, right?” Cedric nodded sheepishly. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders when he isn’t pissing himself. Besides, you know I’m all about rescuing wayward lads from backwater villages... southern or otherwise.”

Dice scoffed, offended. “Are you implying that you rescued me? As I recall, in our very first job together, _I_ was the one carrying _your_ unconscious body to shore after our ship blew up. Oh, and then when we tried to commandeer that Antivan frigate that _also _blew up? Or when you tried to fight Captain Ileth and his entire crew? And of course there’s the banana smuggling job—”

“Yes, yes,” Isabela interrupted, because every single fucking person in Thedas didn’t need to know about the banana smuggling debacle. “But you’re conveniently forgetting the times _I’ve_ saved your giant, hairy ass, aren’t you? Like, oh, when you said we ought to try stealing from that Tevinter magister? I thought your eyebrows were never going to grow back. Or when you thought that galleon at the Denerim shipyard was full of gold, but it was actually full of dwarven explosives? _Or _that time with the chickens!”

“Alright, you _know _that thing with the chickens wasn’t my fault. Now stop scaring the lad; he already looks like he’s questioning his entire life.”

It was hard to tell whether Cedric was truly experiencing an existential crisis or merely a reasonable concern for the two pirate captains arguing in front of him. He stood, silent and wide-eyed, twisting his fingers together like he desperately wanted to crack his knuckles but didn’t want to seem a bother.

“Look, we’re here to do a job,” Isabela snapped, adopting a tone that made even Dice stand a little straighter. “I asked you,” she nodded at him, “to accompany me because, despite being a massive pain in my ass, I’d trust you with my life a dozen times over, and you’re the most competent man I know. And you,” she said to Cedric, who tried very hard not to flinch, “have a lot of potential, and you’re going to prove it to us today, understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Cedric replied, and there was the slightest bit of pride lifting his chin as he finally looked her in the eye.

“It’s only the three of us for this one, so we’re going to do it right,” she continued. “No bloodshed. We get the goods and we get out.”

She turned to Antiva City’s docks, spread far and wide below their rendezvous point on the Coast Way. Countless ships bobbed in Rialto Bay, sloops and cutters and warships, but only one was their target. Isabela pointed to an immense three-masted frigate flying the Templar standard on her mainmast. 

“There,” she said. “The Iron Shield is her name, and she’s carrying a load of rebel templars. Bloodthirsty bastards, I’m told. Some friends of mine are paying handsomely for any information we can dig out of this group. Troop movements, contacts, even supply lists. They’ll take any of it.”

“Surprised to see you taking a side,” Dice rumbled next to her. She wasn’t sure, but it sounded like he approved. “Dairsmuid?” 

She refused to acknowledge the question directly. He knew. “It’s not taking a side. It’s making sure the people who kill children have a little harder time of it. And making some coin at the same time. Everyone wins. Now, I know the goods are aboard, but I don’t know where. And I’m not about to go sneaking onto a ship crawling with templars without knowing exactly where to look. Which is where you come in, Cedric.”

“Me?” Cedric’s eyes seemed in danger of fleeing from his skull.

“Yes, you. You think they’d let me or Dice on the ship to have a look around? No, not a chance. But _you _can meet with their captain and offer your services as a carpenter, same as you did for me.” She barreled on, heedless of Cedric’s increasing panic. “And then you will request a tour of the vessel. Ask as many inane questions as you need to stall for time, so you can get a good look at where they keep their records, where they station guards, and how good their defenses are. Remember every name you can. When he offers you a position on the crew, you shake his hand and tell him you need to get your tools. Then you come back and tell us everything you learned.”

“What if they don’t need a carpenter?” he stammered, hands now a contorted mess.

“Then you ask if they have any other uses for an experienced sailor. If they turn you away after that, come back to us and we’ll figure out something else. Don’t press the issue; we don’t want to tip them off. But every ship needs carpenters, and I can’t imagine a Templar ship would be any different. If you’re able to bring us any information, Dice and I will board at night to snatch what we can.”

“Are you sure about this?” Dice cut in. “That’s an awful lot of responsibility you’re putting on the boy.”

“He can do it,” Isabela insisted. “I worked with him when we took that Nine Suns shipment back in Harvestmere. Out of the twenty men on the job, he was the only one to notice the trap door in the back office. Saved our hides when a second wave of guards came in. He pays attention to the little things because he doesn’t have his head shoved up his ass like the rest. And I swear I’ve never had to explain anything to him more than once. But I can ask him myself.” She faced him. “Can you do this, Cedric?”

Cedric stared out to the harbor where Iron Shield rested, squinting, like he could find those documents from where they were standing a mile away. He unwound his fingers and flexed them, then grimaced before finally relenting and cracking every knuckle on both hands, a ghastly series of pops and snaps that set Isabela’s teeth on edge. But it appeared to settle his nerves. With a breath so deep Isabela feared his lungs might burst, he turned to her, resolute, a man.

“I can do it, Captain Isabela.”

Dice nodded, accepting her judgement, and they started down the Coast Way, blue and white mosaics under their feet soon giving way to the brown, salt-stained flagstones of the docks.

Isabela and Dice found high ground on one of the quays while Cedric made for Iron Shield. Dock workers offered them a wide berth, not willing to tangle with obvious pirates. Though her position as Admiral had largely kept her out of sight, Isabela’s reputation in Antiva had never quite burned out. And Dice was a constant fixture in the city, an unabashed knave with nary a care for the Crows or the Raiders, despite carrying the latter’s tattoo in his skin.

A tattoo he kept on full display, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But there was another on the opposite forearm, one Isabela hadn’t seen before.

“Is that a rose?” she asked him.

He flashed a gold-toothed grin. “Aye, it is. I’m not crazy enough to get the skull covered up like you, but I can show my loyalty for the fleet. I met up with a few of the captains a while back and we all had it done. You’ve earned their respect, Admiral.”

A rush of pride and affection brought a flood of tears to her eyes. It had been almost four years since Dice offered to join his ship to hers, the first member of her nascent fleet. Almost four years since she walked into Stitches’s shop and demanded he cover the Raider tattoo on her back with a red rose. It was insanity, an enormous risk, even for a woman who lived most of her life in peril. To spit in the face of the Felicísima Armada, to throw their benefits away and strike out on her own was madness. But her men believed in her.

“You’re all ridiculous,” she mumbled, dashing the tears away before they spilled. Some fearsome pirate admiral she was, crying over tattoos.

“Only as ridiculous as our leader, I reckon. Ah, looks like your lad is aboard.”

Cedric was hard to miss, sticking out of Iron Shield’s surface deck like another mast. He approached a templar and exchanged words briefly before he was led astern and through a door, presumably to the captain’s quarters. So far, so good. Isabela let her hand fall from her dagger’s hilt back to her side.

“Maker take us all if he doesn’t find anything,” she said. “That Fiona offered a boatload of gold for the goods.”

Content to wait, Dice took a seat on a barrel of saltfish. “I know you’ll never admit to it, but you’re doing the right thing.”

He was right. She’d never admit to it. “And you’re not at all biased from loving an apostate, I’m sure.”

“Bones would’ve been appalled by this mess and you know it. He hated the Circles, true, but he hated senseless bloodshed more. And now that the Templars have broken away from the Chantry… there’s a lot of senseless bloodshed. A lot of scared, angry people out there desperate for someone to blame.”

“What does Miguel think of it?” Dice’s husband was just as caring and sensitive as Bones, but he was a merchant, not a mage.

“He…” Dice stared at the horizon, at the clouds painting white shadows across the water. “He’s Andrastian, you know. I think all Antivans are. When Dairsmuid was annulled, it was hard for him to understand why I...” He raked a hand through his beard.

“Why you were so upset?” she offered.

He glanced at her as she sat on the barrel next to him. “I take it you went through this with Hawke.”

“A bit.” And then she told him all of it, from Rhihal to Anders to the talk over tea. Dice listened patiently as the anguish poured out, the intensity of it catching her by surprise. And it wasn’t just grief breaking through. Frustration, too. Helplessness. And that damning feeling, that burning sensation of a heart that cared too much for its own good tearing in two.

“You’re restless,” Dice said when she finished, but she shook her head.

“I know why you’d think that, but I swear I’m not. I love what I have with Hawke. Never thought I would, but I... I really do. I finally have a home.” She saw Dice smile from out of the corner of her eye. “I think I’m just torn. On the one hand, I’d assume keeping safe means staying out of anything resembling war. But on the other...”

“You want to help. There’s no shame in admitting it. But I understand the desire to protect you and yours. Sometimes I think about giving all this up and getting a house somewhere in the middle of Antiva.”

“You’d give up the life?”

It was hard to believe. Dice had left his tiny village in eastern Rivain at fourteen, lying about his age to get accepted onto a pirate vessel. For as long as she’d known him, he had always embraced the chaotic and often brutal seafaring life with ease. Though Isabela was his captain by sheer force of will, there was no doubt that Dice’s blood ran every bit as salty as hers. She couldn’t imagine him retiring.

“How many old pirates do you know, Bela?” he asked, and there was a seriousness to his question that belied the jest. “I’m not into chasing death and glory anymore. When Dairsmuid’s Circle went down, that’s when it really hit me. I want peace. I want a… a family. I know you’ll be fighting ‘til your last breath, but me?”

“You and Miguel with a kid, living a quiet life in the countryside? That’s so…”

“Quaint? Boring? I know.”

She shoved him hard enough to tip the barrel onto its rim. “I was going to say lovely, but sure, we can go with quaint and boring.”

“Aye, well, you know our countries have no shortage of little bastards in need of parents.” He paused, eyes sparkling. “And aunts.”

“Aunts? Who is—” And then Dice’s smile widened into a full grin, and she knew what he meant. Her earlier tears came back with a vengeance. “Andraste’s luscious tits, Dice! If you make me cry, I _will _kill you, I swear it!”

“Best dry your eyes, then, Captain. Your boy’s coming back, and we can’t have him knowing you’re a softie.”

“Shut up,” she growled, furiously wiping her eyes and trying to compose herself. “I’m going to teach your brat all kinds of terrible things. Then you’ll wish you respected me properly.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Cedric trotted back in a flurry of nerves, looking close to heaving over the side of the docks. When he spoke, the words came out in a rush, flowing like a river through a broken dam, as though he needed to cast them into the air lest they be forgotten forever.

“The captain’s name is Leo Rivera; he’s an Antivan. Walks with a limp. Didn’t see tattoos, but he’s feuding with someone named Revaud. That’s why he’s working for the templars, he said. And there are a lot of templars. When we went to the berths, there had to be over a hundred beds. Not the crew, though. Just transporting them. The templars, I mean. Transporting the templars.” 

He stopped to take a breath. “Rivera’s quarters were locked; the key is on a cord around his neck. The stern windows need fixing, so I tried to stay in there as long as I could to talk to him about it. He has a big desk right in the middle of the room. Some papers on there, looked like letters. Maybe there’s more in the drawers? He said the templars are paying for some new kind of lyrium, but he didn’t know what was different about it besides the color.”

“Wait,” Isabela interrupted, her mind already reeling in a thousand directions, but one direction called the loudest, the one she dreaded the most. “What color?”

Cedric babbled on like she wasn’t there. “He took me down to the weapons store. I can’t believe he’d show it all to me, but he didn’t even care. Lots of swords and plate armor. For the templars, I suppose. And lyrium, too, that blue glowing stuff in the vials I’ve seen on our jobs. But red ones, too.”

“Red? You’re sure?” Her heart clenched, and she remembered Varric’s plea for help, and the way she blew it off.

Cedric nodded his head so hard she thought his brain must be rattling around in his skull. “Yes. Not as much as the blue, but it was definitely red. It seemed like that was the kind the templars wanted more of? Do you know why? Is it more powerful than the blue kind?”

“Might be, but I don’t know,” she lied. “Did you see anything else? How well is the ship guarded?”

“They had about two dozen templars around the ship that I saw, but I think most will be gone by nightfall. The captain said they were on shore leave for the next fortnight before they leave for Kirkwall. He said I could come back tomorrow to work on his windows, then I’d leave with them when they were ready to sail. If I were really hired onto the crew,” he was quick to correct. “Which I’m not, of course. The head templar… Paxley, was it? He’s staying in the first mate’s quarters. The mate’s not happy about it, but Rivera said he needs to stay on Paxley’s good side if he wants to get paid. No lock on the door. I didn’t get to look around much in there, but I’d check that room and Rivera’s desk.”

Exhausted of all his information, Cedric put his hands on his knees and sucked in air like he had just sprinted across Antiva City. 

Isabela patted him on the back. “You did well, Cedric,” she told him. “Dice and I will handle the rest.”

Cedric immediately straightened. “A-are you sure? I could come with you tonight.”

“No. You don’t know how to fight yet, and I won’t risk you getting hurt if things go south. Go back to the ship. A third of the share is yours, so don’t worry about payment.”

“A third?” Cedric’s eyes widened. “I, um… wow. Thank you, Captain. I’ll just… get back to the ship, then. Our ship. I mean, your ship. Captain. Er, _Captains_, rather.”

“Dismissed, swabbie,” Isabela ordered, though she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. 

Dice was right; she really was a sucker for silly wayward lads.

“Interesting,” Dice said as Cedric left. “Rivera is Armada. And if he’s working with the Templars just because of Revaud…” He cringed. “That’s petty, even for him.”

“Why?”

“Revaud’s daughter. She’s… well, she... _was_ a mage. A high-ranking one in the Circle. Revaud’s always bragged about her.”

“A Raider being childish? Perish the thought,” she said, and Dice chuckled. “Red lyrium, though… _that _makes me nervous. And Paxley wants it. Figures.”

“You know more about it than you let on with the boy,” he said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Not really,” she admitted. “A chunk of it came back from Hawke and Varric’s expedition into the Deep Roads and it’s been showing up everywhere since. Between Varric’s brother and Meredith, I don’t know what it does besides make you absolutely fucking mad. But if there’s enough now that they can refine it like regular lyrium...?”

“Sounds like it’s bad news. Should we scuttle the boat?”

“Tempting, but no. We still don’t know how that red shit spreads. What if we sink it and the tide washes it into Antiva? Best not test it. We’ll break into Rivera’s and Paxley’s quarters tonight and see what kind of evidence we can grab. Our contact will want to know about that lyrium.” She leaned over and draped an arm around his lower back. “You think you can be stealthy, big boy?”

He looked down at her and grinned. “Better than you can. _I’m_ not as top-heavy,” he teased, ducking away from her swinging fist.

Night was a thief’s best friend, so they passed the last few daylight hours in a grungy sailor’s pub, Cedric’s observations rolling around Isabela’s mind as she planned their attack. Dice had never gotten the hang of lockpicks; he would take Paxley’s room, then watch Isabela’s back as she worked on the lock. With any luck, any templars or crew onboard would be in the berths on the other end of the ship, and Paxley and Rivera would be drunk in a tavern.

Still, Isabela and Dice prepared for the worst, with knives and poisons lining every available inch of their belts and coat pockets. They couldn’t take down the entire ship, or even the contingent left as night guard, but they could kill enough to escape if need be. A need Isabela hoped wouldn’t rear its head.

With the docks embraced by shadow, they moved, confident strides masking their intent. Antiva City did not sleep, and its docks were no exception: sailors and adventurous tourists meandered around the wharfs even in the early hours, drinking and gaming, their alcohol-fueled shouts bouncing between hulls. The templars meant to guard Iron Shield’s plank were similarly engaged, secure in a land where the Chantry still ruled, despite the dissolution of its hold on the Order. 

Up the gangplank while the guards groused over loaded dice, and they were in. Away from the glow of the streetlamps, the deck was black beneath their feet, and they made for the stern. On a ship as massive as Iron Shield, the ranking officers had rooms sternside, while the rest of the crew and complement had to make due with the bunks crammed in below the bow. Which was still a better deal than some of the ships Isabela had worked on, where everyone below the captain had to sleep on the deck, practically on top of one another as they tried to catch a few winks.

A templar waited outside the door, but he faced the starboard side, away from them, leaning against the wall of the cabins. Periodically, his helmet would droop, then drop, then bounce back up as he awoke. 

He clearly needed some help getting to sleep. 

Isabela pulled a tiny flask and a rag from inside her coat. Uncorking the flask, she pressed the cloth to the liquid inside and, before the noxious smell of it gave her away, stepped behind the templar and jammed the rag over his nose and mouth, her other arm preventatively wrapped around his sword belt. Within seconds, his knees buckled, and Dice grabbed him before the full weight of the templar’s unconscious body crushed her.

Dice dragged the sleeping templar to a more inconspicuous spot while Isabela tried the door. No lock. With one hand brushing across her dagger’s hilt, she pushed it open, wincing as the hinges creaked.

Lanterns out, but that was little comfort. Either Paxley and Rivera were ashore in some inn, or they were right in front of her, shrouded in darkness. Sleeping... or awake.

With her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she pulled her blade, a soft hiss as it slid free. They had less than half an hour before the sleeping draught wore off, maybe less. She had to work quickly. Blindly, she took a few careful steps in front of her. The mate’s cabin was a small one; she was to the bed in moments. Held breath burning in her lungs, she probed the pile of blankets with her free hand, dagger at the ready.

Exhale. Nothing there. She waved Dice in and he lit one of the lanterns while she closed the door. The cabin flooded with light. Dice immediately set to searching the desk and bookshelf, his enormous frame hunched over to avoid knocking into the hanging lantern.

The captain’s quarters would be through the door in the rear. And, as Cedric informed her, it was locked. A minor irritation. She removed the tension bar and a pick from her bracer and went to work, trusting Dice to keep an eye on the other door. With a few strokes of the pick, the door popped open, and Isabela allowed herself a small smile. All in the wrist.

Daggers out once more, the tension in her like a coiled snake, but Rivera was also absent from his bed, the rumpled sheets illuminated by a shaft of lantern-light from the other room. Bless Antiva City’s inns. Always preferable to a ship’s bed, no matter how grand the vessel. And surely the cold draft from the broken windows raising goosebumps across her arms helped make Rivera's decision not to stay overnight. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the desk in front of her, big and imposing and covered in papers from an undisciplined and overconfident captain.

She saw a few interesting names as she shoved the parchment into her pack. The ship was on their way to Kirkwall to pick up more red lyrium, something Paxley and his group found “promising” over the regular kind. The amount they were willing to pay for it was staggering; Rivera would be bathing in gold if the delivery was successful. A name kept appearing in the correspondence, a name that tickled the back of her brain, but she couldn’t remember if it belonged to anyone she knew: Raleigh Samson.

She let it go. There was no time to remember. Rifling through the desk drawers, she stuffed more things into her bag: Armada letters, trading routes, a pretty map, a pouch of gold and a bottle of wine—a little payment up front. Not _everything_ needed to go to the mages, after all.

Finished with her thievery, she signaled to Dice and they fled for Second Chance, the rush of a successful heist fueling their steps. When they reached her ship, they broke into a fit of adrenalized giggles, and it was like she was twenty again, stealing with her best friend, her brother, before their lives fell apart and grew back together, scarred along the seams. 

At least they were together now. She had lost him for twelve years, leaving him shattered in a brothel in this very city, the blood of his lover wet and red across her blade. A cold necessity, but one that broke her, haunted her. When they met in Llomerryn after she had fled another of her mistakes, she made a promise—to him, to Hawke. No more running. She would never abandon them again. 

* * *

**26 Bloomingtide, 9:41 Dragon**

Thick clumps of black hair littered the floor like a miniature murder of crows. They’d be a bitch to clean up, Isabela realized too late, but the rainy season appeared to be starting early this year, nonstop storms that shook the walls of their house, keeping them trapped inside. Three leaks had already started in the ceiling, their products collecting in assorted buckets and bowls. Half as many as last year, though, which meant their patching skills were improving. Theoretically. It was only the start of the season, after all.

But Hawke wanted a haircut, weather be damned. She had toyed with growing her hair out the year prior, letting it just brush the tops of her shoulders before she couldn’t stand it anymore and begged Isabela to cut it.

“I’m not meant for long hair, I think,” Hawke had said, handing Isabela the scissors, guilty, like she had broken a promise.

And Isabela had agreed with a burst of laughter, and they rolled up the big Antivan rug, freeing an expanse of wooden floorboards. Then they dragged a stool over, the tall one they kept tucked into a corner, the one Isabela borrowed from a nearby bar and forgot to return. She had warned Hawke she was no professional and couldn’t guarantee a perfect—or even decent—cut. Hawke, mercifully, didn’t seem to mind her clumsiness with the shears. 

Another metallic _snip_ as the scissors closed, another chunk of hair fluttering towards the floor. And there was the back of Hawke’s neck, bared to a flood of candlelight, and Isabela couldn’t resist sweeping the tiny hair fragments away and pressing her lips to the skin she had uncovered.

Hawke reached behind her head to touch when Isabela drew back. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to feel air on the back of my neck again,” she said with a sigh. 

“I think it might be my favorite part of you. I missed seeing it,” Isabela said, readying the scissors for another cut.

“Didn’t you just say my fingers were your favorite this morning?”

“Well, they were certainly my favorite at that particular moment,” Isabela muttered, with a private smile at the memory. “Besides, I get to have a lot of favorites. Like this little bump at the top of your spine,” she bent and kissed it, “or this foldy bit of your ear,” another kiss, “and your nose, definitely.” She stepped in front of Hawke, who generously offered said nose for inspection. “But your lips… _those _might be my absolute favorite of all.”

And maybe the haircut would take all afternoon if Isabela continued to be so easily distracted, but it wasn’t as though they had anywhere else to go.

When she was finished admiring all of her favorite spots, Isabela went back to work. “Do you want your fringe back? I could try and do it all _swoosh_,” she drew a fingertip diagonally across Hawke’s forehead, “like you used to have.”

“Could you? I liked the fringe. I think I have a big forehead and that made it less noticeable.”

“You don’t have a big forehead, you goose. But if you insist, I’ll do it. I mean, I can try. If I do a terrible job… that’s what bandanas are for, right?”

With a comb in one hand and the scissors in another, she held her breath and made her best attempt, sending strands of cut hair adrift, clinging to Hawke’s nose and lips and dusting her lap. Isabela cocked her head and looked at her handiwork, appraising it while Hawke’s eyes were scrunched shut. 

“You can open your eyes,” Isabela assured her. “No bandanas required, I think.”

Hawke’s eyes flicked open and up, though of course she couldn’t see her own forehead. Brushing her fingers across the fringe, she smiled, a blind approval.

“Just like when we first met. Maybe a little more grey now,” she admitted.

Isabela set the scissors aside and ran her hands through Hawke’s hair, following the sparse wisps of silver woven within the black. “A little. But it’s been ten years, hasn’t it? You’ve earned it. And it’s not like I don’t have plenty of my own.”

“I love it.” Hawke mirrored her movements, reaching up to Isabela’s temples and tucking strands shot with grey behind her ears. “We’re the picture of maturity and aging gracefully.”

They were able to maintain a facade of sincerity for a few seconds before the side of Hawke’s mouth twitched, and Isabela couldn’t hold back a decidedly immature, ungraceful snort, and then they were both laughing, hanging onto each other with tears streaming down their faces. 

Ten years. It was 9:31 when they met, Isabela standing over Lucky’s whimpering body with his blood spattered across her knuckles, Hawke at the other end of the bar, the mercenary meant to help Isabela with a little shadowy problem that wouldn't be fully illuminated until the Qunari forced it into light. 

Now it was 9:41 and Isabela was thirty-six, a full six years older than she had ever planned to live. And Hawke was freshly thirty-four, her birthday a small, quiet affair held the week prior. Ten years in a blink, a heartbeat, a bolt of lightning. And what of the next ten? Would she spend those at Hawke’s side? The reality, the gravity of it slammed into her like a thirty-foot breaker, and she flailed for shore, gasping. One day at a time, she reminded herself. That’s how they would take it. That’s how she needed to take it.

A pounding at the door ripped her back to the present. It was almost swallowed by the rain, but then it came again, louder, more urgent.

Isabela shot up, heart pounding. They weren’t expecting any of the handful of people who knew where they lived. A dozen, a hundred possibilities careened through her mind as she reached for her daggers. Was it the Armada? The Templars? A rogue mage? One of Meredith’s faithful? Their list of enemies was daunting, and Isabela cursed her complacency. They had stayed in one place for too long. 

The weight of the blades in her hands was a small comfort. With every nerve alight, she gripped the hilts hard and moved toward the door. Hawke retrieved her own sword from near the bed and unsheathed it, the blade reflecting a dozen candle flames. Her face gave no indication of the fear constricting Isabela’s throat, her calm, sure-footed steps to the opposite side of the door soothing in their confidence, like she had practiced for this moment a thousand times. Isabela used it as her anchor. If someone hoped to trap them, they would not prove easy prey. She would not go down alone.

On Hawke’s nod, Isabela exploded, throwing open the door and lunging with her dagger hilt-first. A broken nose could be dealt with if their visitor was a friend instead of a foe. But she didn’t anticipate anyone half her height, and the momentum of the miss nearly sent her sprawling into the mud.

“Don’t kill me, you sodding lunatics!” shouted the stranger, sopping wet and furious. 

“Torshek?” Hawke asked, peering out from the doorway. 

“Yeah, Torshek! And if I see Varric again, I’m gonna strangle him for thinking it was a smart idea to send me here!”

His hood was up and he was soaked to the bone, but it was indeed Torshek, Isabela affirmed as she ducked back into the house. “Come inside,” she said, “and tell me why you couldn’t meet me on the island. _And_ how you found out where we live.”

Torshek stepped through the doorway and lowered his hood. “The answer to both of those questions is ‘Varric.’ He paid me a whole lot of money to hand-deliver a letter to Hawke.”

“To me?” Hawke asked, her eyes meeting Isabela’s, and now the fear was there.

“Did I stutter? Sodding surface and its sodding rain… never should’ve left Orzammar,” Torshek grumbled, fishing for something deep inside his coat. Emerging with an envelope, he passed it to Hawke, who held it in her hands like something explosive. When he looked at the both of them, his features seemed to soften with… pity? Remorse?

“You have no idea what’s been going on in the south, do you?” he asked, the sudden gentleness in his voice unnerving.

Isabela’s throat grew dry. “What? You mean the war with the mages and templars? Or the one in Orlais?”

She combed through her mind for possibilities, but there was nothing else. There had been nothing else, not for months.

“Shit. I guess the two of you being isolated was the whole point, but I at least thought _you’d_ have heard,” he said and nodded at Isabela, “what with that fleet you have.”

“The fleet’s been practically autonomous. Not that there’s been much work lately. Not since…” Icy tendrils of anxiety began to wind through her gut. “Torshek, where is Varric?”

He refused to look at her. “I have a feeling this letter is gonna answer all your questions.” Torshek slung his hood back over his head and opened the door. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t stick around for tea. I’m a busy, busy dwarf.”

He left, the only evidence of his visit the puddle of rainwater on the floor and the letter in Hawke’s hands.

Isabela watched as Hawke opened it, watched her eyes flit back and forth across the page, watched the blood drain from her face.

“What is it?” Isabela asked, more afraid of Hawke’s answer than she had been of the stranger at their door.

Hawke stared at the letter, reading it one more time. Then she folded it, and part of her seemed to fold with it.

“We… need to talk,” she said.


	4. Spark

Hawke,

I’m sorry. I know it won’t mean much by the end of this letter, but I am. I wanted to keep you out of all this shit. I wanted you to live in your beach house with the woman you love and not have to worry about the rest of the world going to shit. That’s why I gave Isabela those jobs. That’s why I kept writing letters. Which I’m sure you’ve noticed have stopped since Firstfall. 

I was taken by people in the Chantry and interrogated. They wanted to know about you. I told them everything, from the time you landed in Kirkwall to the time you left. I wanted them to know the real Champion. The truth. But I didn’t tell them where you were. I lied and said I didn’t know. They left, and I thought that was that.

But they weren’t done with me. They wanted me to tell your story to Divine Justinia at the Conclave in Wintermarch. So I went. And as you may or may not know, everything exploded. It ripped a bunch of holes in the Veil. Demons were appearing all over southern Thedas. Cassandra, the Seeker who interrogated me, decided to reform the Inquisition from the first Blight in response. We spent the last five months in Haven, working with the rebel mages to try and fix it.

And we did. There’s this human, Saoirse Trevelyan. She was at the Conclave when it blew up, and not only did she manage to survive, she can close these rifts in the Veil. We were able to seal the biggest of them, but then a dragon showed up. You’ll probably think I’m joking. I’m not. I wish I were.

Haven was destroyed by the dragon and an army, both of them led by Corypheus. Read that sentence again, because I’m sure it won’t make sense the first time. Somehow, he was able to resurrect himself and indoctrinate a legion of rogue templars using red lyrium. 

I know we killed him. I was there. But he’s here now and intends to become a god. And from what I’ve seen, he’s not bluffing.

We’re safe for now. There’s an abandoned fortress in the Frostbacks that’s proven secure enough for the time being. I could meet you here. If you come to Jader, our ambassador can send a contingent to accompany you to Skyhold.

I swear I never wanted to involve you in any of this. I couldn’t even send a letter to you without them tracking it and finding you, so I didn’t. But I don’t think we can do this without you.

I’m asking as your friend: please help us. Help me. I don’t know what else to do.

—Varric

Isabela set the letter on the table, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, holding it for a count of three before exhaling. And then she did it again, because her pulse was still slamming rapidfire in her temples, a cacophony of fluid, _thudthudthud. _It didn’t help the noise, but it kept her from screaming.

When she opened her eyes, Hawke was there. Standing in front of her and fidgeting from foot to foot, every single worry etched into her face. Too much to hide, to contain within her granite walls. Far too much for Isabela to brush away.

“You’re right,” Isabela said, too calm. “We need to talk. What is this?”

“You… don’t know who Corypheus is, do you?” Hawke asked tentatively, guilty of some sin Isabela could not begin to fathom. 

“No, not ringing a bell. Sounds Tevinter.”

Realizing she couldn’t immediately sprint all the way to Ferelden, Hawke dropped into her chair, stirring up the forgotten tufts of her hair dusting the floor, hands knuckled against her forehead. Her undeniable distress crept like spiderlegs up Isabela’s neck, pinprick promises of venom soon to come.

“When you were away in Rivain, some members of the Carta put a hit on me. Varric was able to track them to a hideout in the Vinmarks, then we followed them into a Grey Warden prison, an ancient one built inside a mountain.”

And then she told Isabela the rest: the taint-maddened Warden-Commander and the ruthless senior Warden conspiring against him. The whispers, remnants of her father in every step, his blood from a sick and manipulative pact sealing the prison. The feeling of puppet-strings tugging. And at the end of it, a twisted corpse begging for Dumat’s favor, a creature who had traded every last scrap of humanity for power.

“And you killed him?” Isabela tried, still struggling to piece all of it together.

Her skepticism clearly stung. “Yes! I’d like to think I know what death looks like by now,” Hawke said bitterly, and the morbid insinuation cut to the quick. “I bloody well ran him through with my sword! But apparently that wasn’t enough.” 

Isabela flexed her fingers against the tabletop, the rough wood grain a tactile distraction. Hawke had never mentioned any of this. When Isabela returned from her three years in Rivain, they needed days to catch up, entire afternoons spent in bed, talking, rebuilding the shattered remains of their relationship Isabela had left behind. Hawke had told her about Meredith, about Orsino, about all those new pressures and responsibilities that came with being Champion, the ones that turned a cruel, though unintentional, mirror on Isabela’s absence.

But not a word about this. Concern began to bleed into anger.

“And you didn’t think to tell me about any of this because…?” Isabela let the question hang in the air, waving a hand about flippantly.

Hawke stared at her, newly-cut fringe framing the sudden, terrible weariness in her eyes. “Because it was well and done with by the time you came back? Because I had other things to worry about? In all that happened while we were in Kirkwall, it didn’t seem like anything too out of the ordinary. How many people have tried to kill me since we’ve known each other?”

“But this was different. It involved your father,” Isabela countered. “So they needed _you_, specifically. Or Bethany, but I’m sure they had a harder time tracking her down. You should have told me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Hawke shot back, biting frost. “And you know, Varric and Anders were there with me, but they didn’t feel the need to inform you, either.”

Isabela slammed her hand against the table, an echo of the thunder outside. “_They _are not the woman I love! And _they _never had numerous fights with me about not keeping secrets.”

“I forgot! Excuse me for not remembering every little thing that happened to me in the three years you were gone.”

That word “gone” burned like a knife-tip dragged through scarred flesh. “Don’t give me that bullshit,” Isabela spat. “You didn’t just ‘forget’ to tell me about this. I know you didn’t.”

“I didn’t…” Hawke pressed her thumbs to her forehead and groaned. “Maker, you are frustrating!” Lifting her head, she leaned back in the chair, collapsing in on herself, too tired to fight. “I didn’t want to worry you, alright? You had just come back; things were sensitive between us. And I know how protective you can get, especially if someone was after Bethany, and—_shit_.” 

Hawke bolted to her feet and immediately began rummaging through Isabela’s desk, scattering papers in a flurry.

“What are you doing?” Isabela asked, her irritation ebbing in the wake of Hawke’s sudden panic.

“I need to send a letter. I need to… _where_ are the fucking quills? I just saw them!” A series of scrapes and clunks as Hawke frantically opened and closed drawers. “I should’ve known.” _Slam_. “I should’ve known.” _Slam_. “Should’ve—”

“Hawke.” Isabela crossed the room, forcing herself between Hawke and the desk. “_Hawke,_” she repeated, gripping her by the wrists, halting the downward spiral, at least for the moment. “Save your letters for when we get to Llomerryn. I have a few of my own to send, too.”

Hawke paused, letting her hands go limp. “Why would you go to Llomerryn?”

“That’s where my ship is, isn’t it?”

“You… you’re coming with me?” Hawke looked away, ashamed and blinking back tears. “Bela, this is my mess. You don’t need to get yourself wrapped up in it.”

As if she would ever let Hawke go alone. As if there were any force in the universe strong enough to stop her.

“You think I’d just let you run off and get into trouble without me?” Isabela’s hands left Hawke’s wrists, traveling upwards to gently cup her face. “I would follow you right into the Void. You know that.”

“You’re sure?” 

“There’s no place I’d rather be.” She pushed herself up on her tiptoes to kiss Hawke’s forehead. “Besides, I need to beat up Varric.”

—

It was strange to think this would be their last time at the Full and By for the foreseeable future. In the last three and a half years, it had served as both a second home and a base of operations, its lacquered tables bearing witness to countless letters and pints. Isabela loved it, this little encapsulation of Llomerryn, packed wall to wall with miscreants, pirates and assassins and thieves. And maybe some of them, Isabela supposed, were good people.

Good people like Dice and Miguel, seated across from her and Hawke. Her pensive brothers-in-arms. Miguel with his quill and ink, painstakingly copying Isabela’s every word in his merchant’s shorthand. And Dice beside him, nodding fervently, insistent on relying on his memory—though he would no doubt need his husband’s notes as soon as they left the bar. 

“And you feed the goats in the morning?” Miguel asked, already reaching for another sheet of parchment, his first three crammed with ink. 

The boys were both in Llomerryn when Hawke and Isabela stuffed their belongings into packs and locked the door of their house behind them. When Isabela met them at the bar and filled them in on her plans, Dice and Miguel merely shared a knowing smile. She was no stranger to dashing halfway across the world at a moment’s notice, a variety of madness Dice had experienced for himself numerous times as part of her crew, those swept up into her maelstrom. In her younger days, she would spend an evening raiding in Seheron before a flight of fancy or the right sort of wind would send her careening for Orlais the next morning, and all her crew could do was hang on.

At least now she had a direction.

“Yes,” Isabela said. “Don’t worry, they’ll yell at you if you forget. And I haven’t figured out how to keep them from constantly tipping over their water trough, so you’ll have to deal with that.” She turned to Hawke, who was masterfully hiding her impatience behind careful sips of beer. “Why did we even get goats in the first place?”

Hawke shrugged. “They just sort of wandered over and never left. Same as the dogs.”

Dice leaned back in his chair and inhaled sharply. “Dogs? You didn’t tell me you had dogs.”

Of course Hawke had to go and mention the dogs. Of course she would forget how Dice was chased and bitten by a mongrel as a child and couldn’t so much as look at a dog bigger than a rabbit without cringing. He couldn’t even visit their house while Brutus was alive.

“Oh, they’re just little mutts from the village who stop by sometimes,” Isabela was quick to amend, an attempt to smooth it over. _Most _of the dogs were small, anyway. “Shy, but friendly. Throw some scraps out for them every once in a while and they’ll be happy. I told Hawke not to feed them but, you know…” She placed a hand to one side of her mouth and lowered her voice. “Fereldans.”

Hawke muttered a wounded “hey now” but had no further argument. The pack of strays, considered a nuisance by the Oberans at best, seemed drawn to Hawke as one of their own, wandering a cautious distance behind her while she walked the beach. And Hawke, her heart bleeding for their jutting ribs and mange-ridden fur, started leaving food out for them. At dusk and dawn they would come on their daily pilgrimage, gathering around the house and snatching bits of gristle and bones, snarling and yipping while Hawke watched them through the windows. Isabela never could bring herself to scold Hawke for it, not with the way she looked when she saw them, not with that joy lighting up her face every time.

Dice seemed to accept it, albeit grudgingly. “Never doubt I love you, Bela. Dogs…” He grimaced. “_Eurgh_. The fleet, though. That’s of greater concern to me than your menagerie.”

“The fleet is fine. I’ve sent letters out to all the captains and my main contacts on land. I let them know that I’ll be gone for a bit and to report to you. Do as little or as much as you wish. I trust you,” Isabela said, then added as Dice’s face split into a grin, “Just don’t get all full of yourself. I’m the only one who gets to wear a spiffy hat, understand?”

Miguel looked up from his scribbling. “He wouldn’t look nearly as beautiful in it as you do,” he said, and Isabela couldn’t disagree.

Drinking what was likely the only glass of water the Full and By had ever served, Dice shook his head. “Still can’t believe you’re joining this Inquisition. As soon as I heard holes were opening up in the sky… like I needed more reasons to stay away from the south.”

“Well, if we don’t take care of it,” Isabela retorted, “the sky might rip itself a new asshole right above you and shit on your head. So, you’re welcome.”

In the months since the Divine’s death, Isabela hadn’t been completely unaware of news from southern Thedas. But unraveling thin strands of truth from thickets of wild speculation often proved difficult. The sky outside the bar was clear and seamless, a radiant summer blue—no holes, though Isabela couldn’t conceive of what such a thing would even look like. No dragons or darkspawn magisters, either. Only people, and the foibles of man could cover a host of supernatural events. She had assumed the whispers from Ferelden and Orlais were the makings of such men, the dying gasps of wars that refused to end. And now there was a new war: this Inquisition on one side, Corypheus on the other, though it seemed few knew of his real identity. As Hawke explained on the walk to the ferry, he was a relic of the Ancient Age, a secret shame of the Wardens. They kept him chained even as his mere presence called to them, a siren song.

And that was why Hawke had her own sheets of parchment, a trio of letters awaiting flight. One to Bethany, with the hope she remained in Kirkwall since their last contact. Bethany had mentioned oddities amongst the southern Wardens, ripples of discomfort and paranoia in a notoriously opaque organization that had left her on edge. Hawke had brushed it off when she read it, too unfamiliar with the Wardens to let it stick. But now the pieces were falling together, bit by terrible bit. Isabela had suggested Aveline could keep Bethany away from whatever sinkhole was forming in the south; if anyone could protect Hawke’s sister, it was her. Privately, Isabela prayed Bethany hadn’t already stepped into it. The consequences were too painful to consider.

A second letter went to Alistair, a short demand: “Tell me what the Wardens know of Corypheus. Send your response to Skyhold.” As with Bethany, an assumption of location was required; for Alistair, that was Amaranthine. A double assumption, really, because Hawke couldn’t be sure Alistair knew where Skyhold _was_. Varric’s letter called it an abandoned fortress, a descriptor that didn’t suggest great renown. Given Alistair’s middling information on red lyrium, Isabela wasn’t holding her breath for a response.

The last, of course, would go to Varric, announcing their impending arrival. The only letter Hawke had any confidence would get to its intended receiver. 

“We’ll take care of everything,” Dice said, and Isabela knew he would. “You do what you need to do, and then you both come back in one piece, aye?”

A brave demand, but the barest tremor in his voice told the truth, and when the time came for goodbyes, he managed only a few words before he broke entirely, fear cracking through his baritone. 

“I’ll be fine, you big baby,” Isabela chided as they embraced, her own tears dampening his shoulder. “I guarantee I’ve been through worse scrapes than whatever’s waiting for us down south.”

“I know. But I’m still allowed to worry about you.”

When they switched places, Isabela trading Dice’s crushing hug for something softer from Miguel, she could hear Dice and Hawke sharing hushed words, though she couldn’t make out specifics. Miguel’s goatee was rough against her skin as he bent to kiss her cheek, an Antivan custom she never could get used to. 

“I will not tell you to be careful,” he said. “Because we both know you will not listen.”

“You’re smarter than your husband,” she told him, bringing a humble smile to his lips. She began to pull away, then remembered and turned back to face him. “Don’t let your kids destroy my house. We haven’t childproofed it.” 

Miguel chuckled. “I would be very surprised if we adopted a little one before your return. But, just in case…” He inclined his head, ever the gentleman. “Point taken, Isabela.”

Never one to linger on goodbyes, Isabela shooed the boys off to Obera, Hawke’s key to their house clutched in Dice’s hand, and told herself everything would work out. Hawke dropped her letters off with the innkeep along with a hard plea for a prompt delivery. 

“Are you ready?” Hawke asked her, because she had been ready from the moment her eyes first passed over Varric’s letter—_please help us_, irresistible bait.

Isabela held the door open, and there was the Amaranthine Ocean, waiting. “Of course I’m ready. I’ve had enough peace and quiet for a while,” she said, like she could convince herself, like she hadn’t changed from a woman who used to loathe such things. 

Still, there was that spark in her chest, a lust for adventure that had never quite extinguished during their years on the beach, just laid dormant through hammock naps and driftwood carving. A reminder of who she used to be. She held onto it, that feeling, that ember, and willed it to ignite.

As they left the Full and By and walked towards Second Chance, waiting anchored at the island’s southern docks, Isabela looked up at the sky.


	5. Scarred

Isabela saw it when they neared the mouth of the Waking Sea. At first, nothing more than the faintest glimmer of green, so minuscule it felt like a trick of the light, a mirage, and she had to squint, one hand blocking the sun, before she could recognize it. She peered into the bleeding wisps, a gangrenous wound in cloud-flesh. It didn’t seem real. The sky had always been a comfort to her. So much like the sea, but the water’s twin was a softer, gentler lover, more kind than destructive. To see such a scar in it felt perverse.

“Is that what Varric was talking about?” came Hawke’s voice beside her. “One of those rifts?”

The breeze tossed the tips of Hawke’s hair about and tore at her clothes as she stared at the scar in the sky, as Isabela stared at her. Nothing compared to seeing Hawke on deck, even so many years later. The first time, after Kirkwall, Hawke had spent the first half of their journey clinging to the rail, focused resolutely on the horizon—a trick to ward off seasickness Isabela was quick to share—mouth sealed tight, knees locked. Every step without a handhold was like that of a newborn horse, the ground beneath her feet foreign, shifting. 

Now Hawke stood as sure as she did on land, steady even when the seas turned moody, and, for a moment, as she touched the scarlet ribbon tied around her arm, Isabela forgot about the wound in the sky.

Until she turned her gaze away and back toward the south, toward the vortex, and it wasn’t her imagination or a spot of bad weather. No, this was real, yet unreal. They were sailing for something otherworldly. A chill stole up the back of her neck. Kirkwall, for all its problems, seemed pedestrian by comparison. Kirkwall’s troubles were the troubles of humans, of elves, of Qunari. A stolen tome was nothing. Meredith was nothing. It was only a city, and this was infinitely larger. It was a wonder they had managed to avoid it for so long, and Isabela couldn’t help but remember Rhihal’s warning. _War will always find you_.

“I think so,” she replied. “Maybe that’s the big one. Or was.”

Hawke pressed against Isabela’s side, the rail digging into her hips as she leaned over to watch the spray hit the hull. A thing she’d never dare to try her first time at sea, too afraid of being swept overboard, but now she bent nearly in half, and when she stood straight again, there was that cocky smirk on her face—the old Hawke returned.

“You worried?” Hawke asked, like she wasn’t.

“Of course not,” Isabela lied, though they both knew the truth of it, and that was answer enough.

The rest of the voyage to Jader was uneventful, the Waking Sea unusually calm, and Isabela chose to ignore the hole in the sky growing ever larger the farther south they sailed. That one, at least, appeared to be sealed. If there were more that were open, that had things falling out of them, then they would deal with it.

She had, after all, packed every blade she owned.

Jader was a small, ugly city, a dumping spot for goods from other nations, a gateway to nicer places in Orlais. Isabela had made many stops to its docks over the years—and, once, many years ago, to its prison. But this time, Second Chance wasn’t ferrying crates of merchandise, illicit or otherwise. When her crew dropped the plank and secured the mooring lines, naught but humans and elves disembarked, their hands empty. Bray and the other sailors offered curt goodbyes to their captain and left for the pubs, a quick detour to wet their throats before returning Second Chance to her home in Rivain.

A fact that wasn’t lost on the harbormaster, a flinty-eyed Orlesian with an expression sour enough to curdle milk. An expression she was quick to turn on Hawke and Isabela as they approached, no doubt smelling piracy. She brought her registration parchment to bear, quill grasped in her hand like a weapon, ready to ferret out deceit.

“Name, owner, and origin?” she said for what was no doubt the hundredth time that morning.

“Go ahead,” Isabela said, patting Hawke on the shoulder. “Tell the nice lady what she wants to hear.” 

“Second Chance, Marian Hawke, Rivain.”

Though Isabela had granted Hawke co-ownership of Second Chance before Castillon’s stench had even been scrubbed from the quarters, it was the first time Hawke’s name would be on the docket. Registering without a surname was frowned upon everywhere outside of Llomerryn, necessitating a revolving list of pseudonyms from port to port: Isabela was Maria Saahel in Antiva City, Rivell Alansafa in Wycome, and in need of a new name in Cumberland after Antonia Ibaia got into a spot of trouble with the port authorities during her last visit. But now they were in Jader on legitimate business, and legitimate business required honesty, a trait Isabela had never learned to develop when it came to sailing. Or anything else, really.

The harbormaster scratched the details onto the paper. “And your merchandise?”

“No merchandise. Just the two of us and our personal items.” Hawke reached behind her to tap the massive pack strapped to her back for emphasis.

“No merchandise?” the harbormaster echoed, clearly skeptical. “And yet you arrived on a brigantine with a full crew. And from _Rivain_.”

Isabela couldn’t hold back an eyeroll. “You can go stick that pointy nose of yours in the hold and look for yourself if you don’t believe us.”

“Oh, believe _me_, I will.” More angry scratches on the parchment, each word emphasized with a stab of her quill. “If you are not here for trade, I still need to document your intended purpose in Orlais.”

Hawke put on her most charming smile. “What, do we not look like tourists to you? Is it not enough for a Fereldan and a Rivaini to want to experience the, er…” Her gaze wandered over the array of squat, dingy buildings littering the docks, so very boring in their sheer mundanity. “Foreign delights of Jader?”

Suddenly, a trio of hulking men approached, apparently summoned by the barest whiff of trouble. Dock guards. The harbormaster drew herself up taller, bolstered by the presence of her knuckle-dragging lackeys.

“If you are merely tourists, you will not mind if we check your bags, hm? We will need to confiscate your weapons, should you have any,” she said, thin lips curling into a simpering smile as she made a point of staring at the daggers strapped to Isabela’s hips.

Before Isabela could calculate the amount of jail time she would earn from murdering a harbormaster, a redheaded dwarven woman slipped between them.

“That won’t be necessary, Estelle,” she said, holding a hand up in an attempt to de-escalate. “They’re with the Inquisition.”

“So they are not tourists,” Estelle pressed, bent on wringing every last drop of authority out of her position.

“They’re not, but we’ll take it from here. Thank you.” The dwarf’s tone brooked no argument, and the harbormaster left with a parting huff. “Sorry about that. Estelle takes her job _very _seriously.” She extended her hand toward Hawke, who took it. “Lace Harding, Inquisition scout. Greetings, Champion. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hawke made a cursory attempt to stifle her cringe. “Just Hawke is fine, please,” she replied. “I haven’t been Champion in four years and I’ve no desire to start again.”

“Fair enough. I tend to prefer ‘Harding’ over ‘Lace,’ myself.” Harding looked up at Isabela, her expression unreadable. “We weren’t expecting anyone besides you, Hawke.”

Isabela nudged Hawke with her shoulder. “You didn’t tell Varric I was coming with you?” she exclaimed, filled to the brim with mock hurt.

“I did, I swear!” Hawke joined in the drama, clutching a hand to her heart.

Harding, likely beginning to surmise the nature of Isabela’s relationship to Hawke, allowed herself a small smile. “If you sent a letter from Rivain, it’s probably just arrived at Skyhold. Varric was confident you’d drop everything to come here, so I’ve been waiting in Jader the past few days for your arrival. Seems like he knows you well.”

“Hawke can’t resist the calls of the needy.” That earned her a grin so warm and genuine Isabela couldn’t help but melt. _Damn her_. “And it seems _I_ can’t resist following her around on all her ridiculous charity missions.”

“Well, there’s no shortage of those with the Inquisition,” Harding said. “You won’t get bored. But I’ll still need your name for my report.”

“Isabela. Just Isabela.”

“Just Isabela and just Hawke. Easy enough. I’ll let my people know we’re on our way.”

“You’d better let Varric know I’m coming, too, so he can get a head start on running before I kill him. I’m feeling generous.”

Harding snorted. “Assuming there’s anything left to kill when Cassandra’s finished with him. She won’t be happy to find out he knew where you were this whole time, Hawke.”

Hawke shrugged, long used to threats against Varric’s life. “I’m a popular woman, what can I say.”

“So I’ve heard.” Harding’s eyes flicked toward Isabela, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I hope you brought warm clothes. It gets awfully cold in the mountains, even in the summer.”

Isabela traded glances with Hawke as a well-timed gust of air from the Frostbacks blasted across the docks, leaving her entirely too aware of her bare arms and the plunging neckline of her shirt. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering; she wouldn’t give Hawke the satisfaction, not after the argument they had while packing, when Isabela chose to fill precious pack space with weapons instead of warmer clothing. _“It’s summer! How cold could it be?” _And Hawke nodded and smiled because Isabela knew herself, dammit.

The south. It just had to be the fucking south, didn’t it. She sighed in defeat.

With a knowing look overflowing with pride and mirth, Hawke tugged a fur-lined cloak free from her pack and passed it to Isabela, who wrapped it around her shoulders with the grudging desperation of one whose level of perceived cold tolerance vastly outstrips reality.

“Welcome to my home,” Hawke said, and she laughed.

—

Three days. Three days of mountain trails. Three days of watching the ass-end of Harding’s horse. This was why overland travel was terrible. Not that there weren’t times when sailing was boring. When she was out in the ocean, blue on blue stretching to infinity with no land in sight, it was incredibly dull, a fact she’d never admit to landlubbers. But even that was more thrilling than their journey since Jader, past endless arrays of trees and rocks and shrubs, with nothing but the steadily growing chill to remind her of their progress.

The last time Isabela rode a horse, she was fleeing Kirkwall. Fleeing Hawke’s broken and bleeding body, halfway to a corpse in the viscount’s throne room. She rode a horse to Ostwick, to Ansburg, through Antiva to Rivain, though she remembered little of it, lost in a heady mix of survival instinct and pain. 

This time, though, the woman she ran from rode beside her, the only thing keeping Isabela from going mad with boredom. They played “I Spy,” “Would You Rather,” and “Never Have I Ever,” the latter quickly turning sexually explicit, much to the consternation of their more prudish traveling companions, the ones sent by the Inquisition to accompany them. But even those games grew stale after the first day, replaced by the relentless thuds of hooves on dirt. 

It _was _pretty enough, she supposed. As they ascended, trees heavy with summer-green leaves gave way to pines and firs, bristly needles brushing against Isabela’s shoulders as she ducked beneath their branches. Occasionally, the trail would open up, curving around a peak in the Frostbacks, and she could see for miles, forest valleys and crests of still more mountains reaching before her, so vast and overwhelming she could only look upon it for a few seconds before forcing her gaze back to the ground. And then the ground turned white, and the gentle clopping of her horse’s hooves turned to muffled crunches through fresh snow.

“Are you cold yet?” Hawke asked, her breath fogging in the air. Her cheeks and nose were cherry-red, but she seemed otherwise immune to the temperature, smiling placidly as flakes of snow gathered in her hair.

“No,” Isabela said, and she closed her eyes. “I am not on a frozen mountain. I’m on the beach, baking under the sun. There’s a slight breeze blowing across the surf, and—”

“And then a seagull shits on your head.”

Isabela opened her eyes to see Hawke’s grin, and it was enough of an interruption for her to remember how bloody cold her fingers were, clenched into numb clubs around the reins. She slammed her eyes shut and tried to recall the sweltering weather they had just left a week ago. The weather Hawke—_Maker take her_—always complained about.

“This is my fantasy, and I won’t have you ruin it.” Focusing hard, she could almost, _almost_ hear the tide washing into the sand. “I’m still on the beach, and half a dozen naked, oiled-up men attend to my every need, and I am _not _cold—” But she _was_ cold, and wet, and miserable, “—it is _not _snowing, I am _not _stuck in the _fucking Frostbacks_!”

Her shout echoed all the way down the mountainside. Hawke’s horse grunted his disapproval.

After a too-long pause, one of the Inquisition’s scouts giggled. “Wait, go on about the naked men!” she pleaded. “That was nice.”

Isabela fell silent and wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

Just as she was beginning to contemplate pitching herself head-first off the mountain, she spotted an oddly shaped pine in the distance. It was taller than the others, a different shade, and…

No, not a tree. A turret. 

“Is that the fortress?” Hawke asked, half-standing in her stirrups, craning her neck to get a better look.

“Yup, that’s it,” said Harding, no longer able to muster any enthusiasm after three days of listening to Isabela’s complaints and Hawke’s terrible jokes.

Slowly, the rest of the stronghold crept out from within the forest until the trees faded away completely, revealing a massive hollow within the mountain range, a cradle for a castle. As their group curved around the basin, others joined them on foot and horseback, a stream of travelers flowing into a common trail toward the only entrance. It might have been more awe-inspiring if Isabela could feel any of her extremities. At the moment, her only concern was whether or not the stupid fortress had a bar. She pulled Hawke’s cloak tighter around her shoulders, completely ineffectual against the biting wind lancing through every layer of clothing and burning in her lungs.

“Who thought to put this here?” Hawke mused to no one as they neared the arched bridge that would take them into the fortress proper. “_Skyhold_.” Letting go of the reins, she wiggled her gloved fingers around in the air. “Very dramatic. Though I guess if you can build a castle in the middle of the mountains, you get to call it whatever sort of ridiculous thing you like.”

They dismounted once they neared the gate, stablehands whisking their horses and belongings away before Isabela had time to snatch her equipment back. There went a near dozen of her blades. If she was missing so much as a butter knife when she found where they put everything, holes in the sky and darkspawn magisters would be the least of the Inquisition’s worries.

A woman awaited them past the portcullis. Antivan, Isabela assumed, and her suspicions were confirmed as soon as their host opened her mouth to greet them.

“Well met, Champion,” she said, extending her hand for Hawke to shake. “And Admiral Isabela, I presume?” For Isabela, she gave a slight bow—a surprising choice, marking her as well-informed on customs. “Josephine Montilyet. I serve as chief diplomat for the Inquisition.”

The name poked at the back of Isabela’s mind, the blurry pool where her past resided, her life before Kirkwall. While Hawke explained for the sixth time in the last three days to please just call her Hawke, Isabela swam through years of rum and saltwater, jobs both freelance and Armada, hunting for a name embossed on a merchant ship.

Ah. There it was. Gilt swirls on planks lost to the waves: _Le Chasseur_. Yves Montilyet’s galleon. The one she stole. And then sank.

Isabela smiled and tried to let that memory fall back into the sand, back down among the scraps of Josephine’s father’s ship. “Hawke’s letter must have arrived, then, if you know who I am.”

“True,” said Josephine, offering a glowing smile of her own. “But, much like the Lady Hawke, your reputation precedes you, Admiral.”

“Everything you’ve heard is true, in case you were wondering,” Isabela said blithely, while praying Josephine hadn’t heard _everything_.

Josephine chuckled politely. “Of course. Reputation is everything.” She plucked an imaginary piece of lint from one heavily-ruffled sleeve. “Now, I imagine you must be weary from your journey. If you would like, I can show you your room. Lady Trevelyan is currently away from Skyhold and is not expected to return until tomorrow, so you could take the opportunity to rest.”

“Is Varric here?” Isabela scanned the courtyard, full of soldiers still recuperating in makeshift tents, but spotted no weasley dwarves among them. “We could _also_ take the opportunity to kick his—”

Hawke coughed loudly. “To _speak with_ our _dear friend_ who has asked for our help,” she amended. “That’s what you meant, didn’t you,”—she poked two fingers into Isabela’s ribs—“darling? We’ll take you up on your offer, Josephine.”

Beneath her serene expression, Josephine looked like she was considering assigning Varric a dozen armed guards. “I... have not seen Varric recently, but I am sure he will be pleased to learn of your arrival.” Nodding at a set of stairs leading to the upper castle walls, Josephine beckoned with a wave of her hand. “If you would please follow me, my ladies?”

Though the Frostbacks loomed all around, white-capped and glimmering under the afternoon sun, their chill seemed unable to penetrate Skyhold’s walls, if the grass under Isabela’s feet and the rush of frost-strangled tingles in her fingers and toes were any indication. It was unusual. Everything about this place felt strange, from its location to its construction, which, now that Isabela could focus on it, seemed patchwork and ancient, bits of stone crumbling into dust underneath recently-erected scaffolding. But strangest of all was the sensation Isabela felt days ago at the foot of the mountains, one she could finally name: an attraction, a lure. A calling. 

How many people had died trying to answer Skyhold’s summons? To find that which pulled at them deep within the mountains?

Shaking off the discomfort crawling across her skin like fleas, Isabela followed Hawke and Josephine up the steps to the ramparts.

“I apologize for the state of disrepair,” Josephine said, carefully stepping over the chunks of rock and splintered beams of timber cluttering their path. “Skyhold has remained uninhabited for some time, I am told. Hundreds of years, perhaps. But the Inquisition has stonemasons working tirelessly to make this a place worthy of hosting dignitaries.” 

They passed through what might have once been a bedroom. A bed slouched in the corner, its frame rotted, its mattress molding. The room reeked of damp, of mildew. Vines and moss coated the walls and floor, verdant, wild decoration, nature attempting to reclaim the space. Josephine ignored it and walked faster, as though she was embarrassed no one had yet bothered to scrape the fungus off the stones.

“Wherever you’re taking us, I guarantee I’ve slept in worse conditions. So don’t fret,” Isabela called after her, nearly breaking into a trot to keep up.

Josephine slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder. “You are too kind, Admiral. Still, I’d prefer if we had lodging more suitable for guests of your station. Or… any station,” she mumbled, just loud enough for Isabela to hear.

As they strolled to the far edge of the fortress, Isabela had time to take in the scenery. To her left, the Frostbacks, jagged peaks of black and white, crystalline mists roiling over them, high enough to kiss the clouds. To her right, the courtyard, covered in white tents and tarps, provisional structures meant to protect those of insufficient station to have a room readied for them. A few impatient swordsmen practiced on training dummies in a corner, their grunts and the dull thuds of steel on jute echoing to the ramparts above.

Behind her, almost completely hidden by the mountains, would be the green vortex, ever-present. A reminder of why they were there, miles and miles from home. A reminder of why they were all there, she and Hawke and Josephine, the soldiers and the civilians milling about below them.

But in front of her, sitting on a stool in a shadowy corner of the ramparts, a bottle of wine beside him, was another reminder.

“Hawke. Rivaini,” Varric said with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Glad you could make it.”


	6. Mask

She could have hit him. She wanted to hit him. Every frustration, every accusation, every misgiving boiled within her chest, pressure building beneath the surface until it threatened to burst in gouts of steaming hostility. Her hands clenched into fists while his remained open, inviting.

All his bullshit, all his manipulation, all claimed to keep Hawke safe. But here Hawke was, standing next to her, ready to throw everything they had built to the dogs. For him. The whorled scar in the clouds behind them faded away into someone else’s problem. 

They were here because of him. They left their home because of him.

When she looked at Varric, smiling with his bottle of wine, his peace offering, all Isabela could see was Hawke the Champion, crying in her estate over stacks of summons and pleas for help, crushed under the weight of every citizen in Kirkwall. She remembered that moment, balanced on a knife’s edge, when Hawke almost didn’t leave with her, when she almost let Kirkwall consume her with her obsessive need to put things right, to fix things carelessly broken by others. And he knew it. Of course Varric knew Hawke would come before he even penned that damned letter. That was who Hawke was, and Isabela loved her for it even as she hated what it did to her. 

“Varric, you son of a bitch,” Hawke said, and they were the same words Isabela wanted to spit, but from Hawke’s mouth they were honeyed, airy, a bald-faced attempt to divert the pressure.

“I probably deserve that,” Varric replied, equally light. 

Isabela’s knuckles ached. She heard a small cough and remembered Josephine was there, haplessly witnessing ten years of history playing out in rapid succession.

“I beg your pardon, Varric,” the ambassador said. “I was just showing our guests to their quarters, but—”

He waved her concern off. “Don’t worry about it, Ruffles; I can bring them to their room after we finish catching up. I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate to deal with.”

There was the briefest whisper of a sigh from Josephine’s lips before she composed herself. “That is… not an incorrect assumption. Very well. If you should need anything from the Inquisition during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask.” She inclined her head. “My ladies.” With a twirling flash of gold satin, she was gone.

“Josephine makes the rest of us look downright lazy, honestly. I don’t know how she does it all without losing her marbles.” Varric raised the bottle. His gaze remained fixed on Hawke. “So, should we break open this bottle? A toast for good friends in hard times?”

Unable to speak, Isabela let her words burn in her throat, on her tongue. Words she’d regret as soon as they sparked off her lips. What respect she had for Varric kept them inside, but his nonchalance fed the flames, and his refusal to look at her did little to extinguish her ire.

“I could certainly use some wine after that journey up the mountains. Couldn’t you, Isabela?” Hawke asked, a gentle nudge.

Slowly, Varric at last turned his attention toward her. “I’m not sure if alcohol would make her less likely to kill me or more.”

Isabela had no response save for the quiet hiss of air through her nose as she exhaled.

“Well, powerful women wanting my head on a spike is the theme this week, apparently, so…” His shoulders slumped, the bottle of wine falling to his side. “Why don’t you just say whatever it is you’re dying to say, Rivaini.”

Cool mountain wind filled her lungs. “There’s nothing to say,” she forced out, each word as frigid as the air that birthed them, a safer alternative than thoughts made of fire. “You needed help, you called on the one person guaranteed to drop everything for you.”

“I did,” Varric admitted. “But I would do the same for her. For you both,” he added quickly, and something inside her broke, shattered like an icicle hitting frozen ground.

“Would you?” 

Varric bent to set the wine down, and when he looked up at her again, eyes narrowed and hard, she felt an inexplicable relief. “You read my letter,” he said. “I lied for a year to keep the two of you safe. I lied to a lot of people who could’ve made my life _very _uncomfortable if they found out.”

He told her this like he expected praise, like spinning tales required any effort. Like she should be grateful that saving his own skin just so happened to benefit them.

“I doubt they would’ve found out. You’re a _very_ good liar,” she said, freeing those shards of ice stabbing her lungs.

The retaliation was immediate: “Oh, that’s rich, coming from _such_ a paragon of honesty.”

Hawke stepped between them, her body blocking Varric’s view of Isabela’s exasperated eyeroll. Of the three, Hawke was the only one with hands still open, but she kept her jaw clenched tight, as rigid as Isabela’s fists.

“Okay, I get we’re all feeling a little tense about the reasons I’m here,” Hawke said, each word laced with rapidly dwindling patience, “but I didn’t spend the last three days climbing a mountain just to watch the two people I care most about fight. Stop. Please.”

The weight of Hawke’s plea settled like bathwater in Isabela’s chest, melting the ice, dousing the fire. One by one, her fingers uncurled. 

Varric sidestepped around Hawke and back into Isabela’s line of sight. “I get it. You think this is asking too much. But they wanted Hawke to lead the whole damn Inquisition.” His mouth, so close to a sneer moments before, now hovered near a smile. “And you _know_ she would have agreed to it. Maybe you won’t believe me, but I swear to you both, I kept that from happening.”

Hawke’s surprised bark of laughter came out in more of a sputter. “What? Why would I agree to lead anything like that? I couldn’t even keep Kirkwall from collapsing; there’s no way I could do...” She waved her hand at the courtyard below them. “This. Whatever this is.”

Damn him. He was right. If they called on Hawke to save Ferelden, she would have been on a boat before Isabela could blink, long before she could attempt—and inevitably fail—to talk Hawke out of it. Hawke was no leader, that much was true, but she would try, and try, and try until she had nothing left.

Isabela sighed. “Because you don’t know how to say no when someone asks for help. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it, Varric?” The question might have been pointed before, but she could no longer be bothered to sharpen her tongue. That bottle of wine was looking more appealing by the minute.

As if sensing her waning resistance, Varric pulled a corkscrew from his pocket and worked it into the bottle’s cork, freeing it with a soft pop. He poured three glasses of wine, red as blood and nearly as thick. After taking a sip, he spoke.

“Look. Do you remember when I visited your home last year? I kept thinking, ‘They look happier than I’ve seen in years.’ I mean,” he said, laughing, “I couldn’t believe you two, of all people, were content to settle down, but why would I want to ruin that? Until Corypheus showed up, I never thought I’d have to. I wanted to keep you safe.”

Isabela swallowed her retort along with her wine. An Orlesian vintage, as dry and acidic as she felt. How many times would Varric insist on hiding behind concern for Hawke’s safety? Bitterness coated her tongue long after the wine slid down her throat, bruised fruit and earth.

He continued, “We assumed we’d be okay in Haven. Saoirse conscripted the rebel mages to our side, they went to what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, sealed up the Breach… job’s over, everyone can go home now. We were still celebrating when he attacked. Nobody even knew who was behind it; we were all too busy trying to save people from the dragon and those templars—if you could even call them that.”

Varric paused to drink again, and he cringed, though not from the wine’s bite. “They… some of them were completely mutated by red lyrium. Not even human anymore. I don’t know if Corypheus can use it to control them, or if he just feeds it to them to make them more powerful, or… I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know.”

Red lyrium. It was a plague. Alistair had told them as much in his letters, though he claimed he had never seen it himself. But the Wardens were interested in it, he said, and had sent scouts into the Deep Roads, following the same route Hawke and Varric had used during the expedition. But the Wardens didn’t know how to destroy it. Though, from what little she knew of the Grey Wardens’ brutal practicality, Isabela wondered if they would even want to—why eradicate something they could use? She hoped they weren’t foolish enough to try. 

“When did you see him? Corypheus?” Hawke asked.

“I didn’t. I was helping villagers out a hidden passageway in the chantry while Saoirse left to keep the damn dragon from burning the whole village down around our ears. According to her, he showed up, babbled some nonsense about becoming a god, and then she used a trebuchet to drop a mountain on his head.” Varric shrugged. “Didn’t kill him, of course, but it gave us time to get away. One of our own knew about this place and led us here. As soon as I knew we weren’t gonna die, I sent you that letter. And that’s… it, really.”

“So what are we supposed to do about any of this?” Isabela said sharply, frustration once more taking the reins. “You’ve got something big enough to call an ‘Inquisition,’ go march on his forces and kill him properly. And if he’s actually immortal, we’re all fucked regardless, aren’t we? Might as well be enjoying our last days on a beach.”

“I hoped we could figure something out together. Maybe with your contact in the Wardens? I’ve been talking to some people, too, so maybe... or we could all meet with Saoirse, make some kind of plan. Shit, I don’t…” He trailed off, at an uncharacteristic loss for words, staring helplessly at Hawke, his savior.

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but Isabela lashed out first. “_That_ was your great idea?” she snarled. “Beg Hawke to come here and then pray you all can just pull a solution out of your collective asses? You’d risk her life for—” 

“You know what, Isabela?” Varric interrupted before she could launch into another tirade. “Fine. I know what you want to say. And you’re right. Maybe I’m just a selfish asshole. Maybe I just wanted to have people here I actually know. People I trust. _Friends_. I know this is my fault. I brought her onto that fucking expedition. Then I brought her to Corypheus. And now I’ve brought her here.” Voice breaking, Varric dropped his gaze to the flagstones, but not before Isabela caught the tears pooling in his eyes. “Maker take me, I _know_.”

She had finally stripped away the last layer of his defenses, but her victory proved a hollow one. Unable to look at her, Varric turned away and set his glass down roughly on the parapet, splashing wine over the rim and onto the stone. And beside her, Hawke was a marble column, every muscle taut with impenetrable control, only the smallest of tremors in her own glass giving her anger away. Isabela’s heart sank.

“I didn’t mean…” she started, but it fell flat. She had forced Varric into saying what she wanted to hear from the start, yet his admission tasted more astringent than the wine.

“You did,” Hawke said quietly. She placed her own glass aside, the wine barely touched. “Varric, do you know where our room is? We can talk later.”

“Yeah. Just keep following the ramparts; it’s the tower at the end. Josephine thought it’d be best to keep you away from prying eyes.”

“I’ll have to thank her for that.” And Hawke walked away without another word, without a backward glance at Isabela.

Isabela watched her go, torn in half by her own stupid words, the ones she desperately wanted to cram back into her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she offered, sugar for spoiled milk. 

Varric leaned against the parapet, arms crossed. Neither spoke. The wind was starting to pick up, whistling through the crenels, and a storm front loomed far to the north, an eerie strip of grey swallowing the mountain peaks. Fitting that their arrival would bring bad weather. And just as fitting that Isabela had no idea where she could take shelter, surrounded by strangers. 

She thought of so many more words to say—honest words, fearful and jealous and empathetic, the conversation they could have had, should have had. Instead, she downed the rest of her wine and followed after Hawke.

Their corner tower was in far better shape than the ones they had passed through with Josephine. The walls and windows appeared to be intact, which was more than Isabela could say for most of the castle’s exterior. With the few days they had before her and Hawke’s arrival, the Inquisition had swept out the dust and debris and scrubbed the stones clean. A rug on the floor and a lit fireplace chased away what persistent chill Skyhold itself couldn’t deter. The bed was small, but serviceable. And there, lining the walls, were their belongings, though Isabela was no longer in a mood to verify her knife-count. 

It was quiet, cozy, and made for them, and yet she felt like an intruder.

Hawke was crouched down, rustling through their packs, her back to the door. She did not turn, even when Isabela approached, even when she tapped her knuckles against the door, requesting entry to her own damned room.

Isabela closed her eyes. This was futile. But she had to try. “Hawke. Should we… do you want to talk?”

“Why bother?” Hawke replied, acerbic. “Since you can apparently speak for me.” 

She pulled things from their bags, clothes and cups and candles, setting them all around her like a summoning circle. No rhyme or reason to where anything went; it was likely just a way to distract herself from thinking. 

Isabela knew she would earn nothing but frustration trying to force the issue—to move a mountain—no matter how hard she pushed. So she set her pain and her pride aside and stopped pushing. 

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

A pause in Hawke’s faux-organization, as though she were considering it. But then: “Yes.”

The wine still lingered on the back of Isabela’s tongue, burnt cherries and oak. Antivan was better. Simpler, sweeter. Though the noises from the courtyard had diminished, there was something else filling the space now: the delicate rumble of far-off thunder. 

She turned around and left.


	7. Angels and Serpents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named for the suits in Wicked Grace. Also, Skyhold’s architecture makes very little sense to me, so I’ll likely be flexible when it comes to describing where things are and how to get there.

When Isabela returned to the corner of the ramparts where she had so thoroughly made a fool of herself minutes before, Varric was gone. But the wine bottle was there, half empty and uncorked, growing more stale by the second. She considered taking it. Surely the fortress had some corner she could hide in to down the rest in peace. And then maybe she could find the cellar it came from, and…

She shook her head and kept walking. That wine was shit, anyway.

The courtyard, full and bustling when she first arrived, was beginning to empty, the threat of rain forcing Skyhold’s denizens indoors. Soldiers carried the wounded into ramshackle buildings, a slightly better alternative than braving a storm under a tarp—though with all the holes in the roofs, their prospects of staying dry seemed poor.

But, she realized, it wasn’t just soldiers. There were civilians, too, unarmed and unarmored. Mostly humans, a few elves. Children, families. Maybe they were from that place Varric had mentioned… Haven? Bit of an ironic name, in hindsight. They had fled destruction, braved the mountains, and now they huddled in a decrepit fortress under Inquisition banners. And those banners were everywhere, fluttering on stakes and hanging from the walls like smears of blood, some Chantry bastardization of swords and eyes. Always watching.

If the wars tearing up the south were as brutal as rumors suggested, there would likely be many more refugees filtering through Skyhold’s gates, viewing all those banners with relief instead of suspicion. The fortress was massive, true, but that itch was already starting beneath Isabela’s skin, that reflexive response to feeling penned in.

She needed to lose herself for a while, dull the claustrophobia, and when Hawke or sailing or alcohol were out of the question, there was only one other option.

“Excuse me,” she said to one of the few non-templars lingering about the courtyard, “Do you know where a girl could find a library in this bloody fortress? Assuming anyone here cares about reading.”

The man turned, stifling a flinch at her unexpected approach from behind. She had made her assumption of literacy from the robes he wore, though the scars crisscrossing his face suggested a life more exciting than one spent sequestered behind books.

“If you go up those stairs to the great hall,” he said, nodding to the largest of Skyhold’s buildings in front of them, “you can find one on the second floor. Whether you’ll find any of that rubbish worth reading is another question. I’ve heard there’s more books on the way, but apparently keeping people from dying is more important than literature.”

“Believe me, at this point I’m desperate enough to read the entire Chant of Light a dozen times over.”

“Then you’re in luck. I’ll bet they have a hundred copies.”

Isabela huffed. This was a new low in her constant quest for distraction. “Wonderful,” she said flatly, following it up with a less sarcastic, “Thank you.”

“Hmph.” The man scratched his beard. “You won’t be thanking me when you see what’s up there.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The hall might have been impressive, once. As it was now, however, it more resembled a barn, covered in white splotches of pigeon shit and smelling of dust and hay and too many bodies. Between all the scaffolding and stacks of repair materials, those who weren’t privileged enough to have rooms of their own had spread out bedrolls, some with tarps nailed over them in a feeble attempt at privacy. A shattered stained-glass window at the far end of the room allowed in enough light to make the place seem almost cheery, though the storm rolling in would make short work of that soon enough. Hopefully the owners of the cots below the window would have enough sense to move them before they became soaked through.

But that wasn’t her problem, was it?

Not a head turned as she cut her way through the swathes of people taking shelter: a group of kids playing cards, a woman reading a book, a man darning a sock. Mostly Fereldans, judging by what accents she could pick up from overheard snatches of conversation. That, and all the furs. It made her think of a particular Fereldan, one who would rather sit alone in their room and brood than talk to her like an adult.

Books. She needed to think about books.

The stupid castle had too many sets of stairs. Just like Kirkwall. She picked one and stomped her way to the top, making far more noise than was warranted. Still not enough. Something within her howled, demanding to be heard, demanding space in a castle packed to the brim with strangers, but she clenched her hands around its throat until it wheezed into silence. Anonymity, rare as it was, could be her friend.

She emerged into a round atrium lined with bookshelves, the sounds from the hall muffled by the stacks, replaced with the dry rustling of parchment and the far-off croaks of… ravens? Was there a rookery here? Crossing to the railing lining the center of the library and placing her hands on it for balance, she looked up, and up, until her neck began to ache. Nothing but rafters above her, but those _quorks_ were unmistakable. She made a mental note of the location; Dice deserved a letter.

There were far fewer people on this floor, she discovered, once she pushed away from the railing and began meandering through the stacks. Researchers mostly, their noses firmly lodged in tomes, candles burning down to stubs beside them. She traced her fingers over faded spines, cracked leather and rough fabric. There were gaps in the shelves, holes where books should be, where books were ages ago, but even under such meager loads, the wood still tilted, warping under time’s onslaught. From what she could read—a task made much harder by titles rendered illegible by wear, their languages so old they were barely recognizable—Skyhold’s collection was largely Chantry-based. Unsurprising, given its location and current occupants. But boring. Terribly boring. She had no desire to read about Divine Ambrosia’s bowel movements or whatever other nonsense the Chantry thought worth recording a millennium ago.

After encountering yet another_ Treatise on the Canticle of Erudition_, Isabela was ready to give up hope. Even one of Varric’s books would have been a relief. And of course, much like warm clothes, she had left her extensive collection of literature back in Rivain. A shame. She allowed herself a smile at the thought of slipping her dog-eared copy of _Ride of the Maker_ alongside all the Canticles. Give some initiates a real thrill.

But she had plenty of time left to kill before Hawke would calm down, and if she couldn’t find _Taming the Dragon_ or _Laying the Lay Sister_, she would have to make do. Resigned to her fate, she grabbed a random book from the shelf and wedged herself in an unoccupied, drafty corner, trying to ignore the encroachment of clammy stone against the backs of her arms and the approaching thunder outside the window.

Looking down, she read the title and sighed. _A Treatise on the Canticle of Threnodies, Revised Sixth Edition_. Only marginally better than the Tome of Koslun. She cracked the book open and was greeted by the musty stench of unloved parchment and cramped sermons on the doom of mankind. Perhaps it would be dull enough to put her to sleep. That wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome.

Three pages in, the words blurred into wiggling snakes, dodging her eyes. What was Hawke doing? Was she still sitting on the floor, furiously sorting their luggage? Or had she found Varric, and they were catching up properly without her there to cock everything up again?

Because she _had _cocked it up, hadn’t she? She had let her anger—no, her _fear_—speak for her, plowing over Hawke in a desperate attempt to rip Varric open. Not that Hawke had bothered to stand up for herself. Not Hawke, marching into destruction with a smile, approaching oblivion with a fervor bordering on suicidal. Not Hawke, who would joke right into her own grave.

Isabela stared at the book and willed the sentences into her skull, sharpened them into shears for unwelcome thoughts like overgrown brambles. “_Controversially, Brother Theodore claims that Threnodies 5 is meant to be interpreted in a metaphorical rather than literal fashion, whereupon the ‘silence’ referenced is_—”

“Do my eyes spy another northerner shivering in the corner?”

A man leaned against the bookshelf a respectful distance away, arms crossed, but smiling. She might have placed him for a Nevarran from the neck up, but not with those clothes. Only two types of people possessed a love for impractical straps and skin bared purely for the sake of fashion: pirates and Tevinters. And, somehow, she doubted he was one of the former.

Isabela closed the book with a satisfying thud. “They didn’t tell me I’d be all the way up in the bloody mountains,” she groused. “I would’ve packed less revealing shirts.” Pausing to consider it, she chuckled. “Well, actually, no. I wouldn’t have.”

The man let his eyes linger on her chest, though it seemed less a display of lewdness and more a careful analysis. “I can imagine,” he replied after a few moments, one end of his mustache curving above his lips as he smirked. “That shirt _is _certainly doing the Maker’s work trying to keep your bosom contained.”

“More work for me than for you, apparently.” She peered at a gap in his clothes—for her, absolutely a display of lewdness. “I can literally see one of your nipples. Not that I’m complaining.”

He made no move to cover himself. “Nor was I. And I assure you, the view is completely intentional.” Dropping his gaze to the cover of her book, he leaned forward, suddenly curious. “Did you actually find something worth reading in here?”

“No. It’s some Chantry rubbish. I’m just getting to the part where your people invaded the Fade and ruined everything for the rest of Thedas forever.”

“Yes, we’re quite proud of that accomplishment.” The man laughed, but it felt off, bitter as unripe fruit. “You’re Rivaini, aren’t you?” he asked, then added in response to her raised eyebrows, “All the jewelry gives it away. I’m surprised you’d bother entertaining conversation with a Tevinter, given the history between our people.”

He couldn’t have meant _her_ particular history with Tevinter. The monsters she had worked for, the lovers she had taken, all the allies and adversaries she had earned in the former crown jewel of Thedas. Whirlwind nights in Minrathous under crumbling obsidian towers, blood spilled in the grooves of Vyrantium’s mosaic-lined streets, screams in the Venefication Sea. He spoke of events a thousand years old, a rivalry Isabela had never bothered to regard, but that was what he expected, so that was what she would acknowledge.

“If I refused to talk to anyone from a nation that once tried to conquer mine, I would be _very _lonely,” she said, and he softened, uncrossing his arms. “Look, I’ve sailed to Tevinter enough times to spoil the fairytale that you’re all horned beasts bent on snatching children from their beds at night.” Despite herself, she dredged up a piece from the deep, just loud enough for him to hear: “Though I’ve met a few fitting that description.”

“As have I… and in greater quantity than I’d like to admit.”

He seemed like he wanted to say more, chewing on a corner of his lip, but the fresh taps of raindrops against the window drew both their attentions from demons across the sea. The taps grew to a steady patter, and Isabela wondered if Hawke was safe and dry, if she was cloistered in their room or perhaps in the hall below, mingling with the other Fereldans, turning strangers into friends the way she always did. When Isabela looked back, the Tevinter once again wore an easy smile, his moment of insecurity washed away with the rain.

“Dorian Pavus,” he said, folding into a half bow, “decidedly _not _a horned beast or a child snatcher. Just a terribly handsome mage, far from home and in need of a warm fire and some proper books.”

“Isabela.” The itch to flee returned, tingling down her spine, and she gripped _A Treatise _in her hands as though it were an anchor—the irony of it didn’t escape her. “Equally far from home, no idea what I’m doing here, trying to distract myself with these fucking awful books because the woman I love is—” She pushed the book away and threw her hands up. “Well, she’s… she’s being ridiculous. So I am here until she decides to stop being ridiculous.” The rain began to slap against the window, accompanied by a terrific roar of thunder. “Or until the storm lets up. Whichever comes first.”

It wasn’t fair. She was willing to talk, willing—_for once!_—to admit her wrongdoing, to make amends, and Hawke wouldn’t have it. Isabela’s lover was a wall of stone, insurmountable, controlling the conflict with her silence.

Dorian gave a shrug. “I’d offer you some better reading material if we had any. Or wine, if I could find the cellar. Josephine’s informed me that the Inquisition has plans for a tavern—once we’ve made sure the entire castle won’t collapse on us, anyway—but… we’ll see if the Inquisitor finds such a frivolity useful to the cause.”

His sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed, but Isabela chose to play ignorant. “Why wouldn’t she? Taverns keep morale up! Every army leader should know that. Booze and brothels win wars.”

“I take it you haven’t met her.” He appeared to pick his next words carefully. “I’ll let you form your own opinions, but, suffice it to say, she’s… a very practical woman.”

Wonderful. Like an even less fun version of Aveline.

“We’re meeting with her tomorrow,” Isabela explained, though now memorizing the entire series of _Treatises_ sounded preferable to a visit with the Inquisition’s leader. “I’ll be sure to let her know how ‘practical’ a bar would be. Trust me, I can be _extraordinarily _persuasive when I want to be.”

“You’ll need every ounce of persuasion you have,” Dorian said, and he looked entirely too delighted about the prospect. He pushed off from the bookshelf and reached behind him to brush away any errant dust from his back. “But I should leave you to your reading. The part where we betray our heavenly father is particularly juicy. If I hear any news about bars or brothels, you’ll be the first to know.”

Isabela pressed her hand to her forehead in a mock swoon. “Oh, Dorian, you _do _know the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you?”

“I know the way to a degenerate’s heart, and only because I have one.” There was that smile again, a thin veneer of warmth over a frozen lake. “Lovely meeting you, Isabela. Good luck with the, er…” He gestured vaguely, an expression as helpless as she felt. “Domestic dispute.”

“Ugh. Thanks,” she muttered as Dorian disappeared among the stacks.

Pulling the book back toward herself, she could only hold it in her hands, loath to open it. She knew how the story went, anyway: the magisters rudely invited themselves into the Maker's house, He decided that was a grievous breach of social etiquette and threw a temper tantrum, now the world is shit, the end.

Rivain’s seers, or at least the ones practicing the old religion, didn’t view any part of the Chant as factual. They included the tale of the Golden City’s corruption alongside many other myths, a cautionary fable at best. But a handful of rich men ruining the lives of countless others didn’t seem all that farfetched to her. That was a Tuesday afternoon for most of Thedas.

It was bullshit. All of it.

A boom of thunder and the painful scrape of the chair legs against the floor masked her growl as she got to her feet. She left the book on the table and the lit candle dripping wax into its bronze holder. Reading such dreck would do nothing but give her a headache. One had already started, a dull throb behind her eyes beating in time with her heart. She wanted darkness, she wanted her bed, she wanted…

The sea. Four days on land and she already missed sailing. She hadn’t longed for a ship’s deck beneath her feet so badly since she staggered in the sand of the Wounded Coast, Siren’s Call broken in half behind her. Four days was nothing compared to the times between jobs she had spent in their house in Rivain, but there had been comfort in knowing Second Chance was a short walk and a ferry ride away, comfort in always having an escape route close.

But there was no such thing at Skyhold. Even if she could steal a horse, even if she could find her way back down the treacherous, snow-covered mountain trails to Jader, even if she could get word to her crew to come fetch her… Hawke would not follow. It took three years of misery as Kirkwall’s Champion before Isabela could convince her to abandon the city. Less than a day against unknown odds, no matter how impossible, wouldn’t be enough.

No. If Isabela fled, it would be alone. And she could not, would not do that to Hawke. Not again. Never again.

She shoved those treacherous thoughts into a corner of her mind and marched up yet more flights of stairs. As she approached the rookery—or at least, what sounded like one—the fire in her muscles and the ache in her lungs were almost enough to distract her from her cowardice.

She expected to see ravens and letters, cages and ink. What she didn’t expect to see, seated on a nearby table, was the Left Hand of the Divine.

Leliana appraised her unflinchingly, as though she expected none other than Isabela to appear from the stairwell. She offered no smile or other sign of recognition as their eyes met. She offered no emotions at all—a stark contrast to the woman Isabela saw four years ago in the Viscount’s Keep, starker still to the woman from the Pearl in Denerim, the one Isabela spent a night with another six years before that. There was a coldness to her that was never there before, an unease to her movements as she slipped off the table and crossed the distance between them.

“Isabela, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, her tone suggesting there was no surprise involved. “But it’s ‘Admiral Isabela’ now, is it not?”

Smiling broadly, Isabela kept her posture loose, relaxed. “It is, but we’ve seen each other naked, so I think we can skip the titles, don’t you?”

Her teasing earned the smallest of smiles, but Leliana’s eyes remained hard, empty, and if Isabela didn’t know any better, she would have sworn Leliana had also cast her lot with the Grey Wardens. But no, it was something else. Something else had clipped the Nightingale’s wings, left her wan and tight as a drawn bowstring.

“That was a long time ago, no?” Leliana tilted her head to the side slightly, and Isabela caught the new fine lines feathering the corners of her eyes. “So much has changed. We are different women now than we were that evening in Denerim.”

Isabela snorted. “You think so? You tell me where your Inquisition keeps the ale, I’ll filch a deck of cards off someone downstairs… a few rounds of Wicked Grace will show you I’m just the same.”

A ghost of recognition flitted across Leliana’s face, rousing long-dormant memories: cards held loosely between fingertips, half-empty mugs of beer lacy with foam, knees brushing under the table. The flutter of a shuffled deck lost under drunken laughter. Eyes that hid a thousand more tales than they told, half-lidded and full of promise. That elf, the Warden, laying out her losing hand with a sheepish grin, trading glances with the redhead beside her. That same Warden on her knees in the captain’s quarters, the Blight forgotten for the night.

But then it was gone, ten years extinguished by a blink, and Leliana looked away.

“If you were the same, you wouldn’t be here,” she said, words like a knife’s edge, so unlike the giggling young woman at the Pearl with a handful of angels and a song on her lips.

“And do you still like biting?” Isabela pressed, determined to resurrect what used to be. “One word from Hawke and we’ll see if _that’s _changed.”

“The fact that you now need ‘one word’ from someone is not indicative of the last decade’s passing, I suppose.”

Leliana made the observation without apparent malice, but it still stung like an insult, like skin rubbed raw. The girl from Denerim was gone. But so was the pirate captain, the one who never needed to ask permission, who would have cut her own hands off before following another. The years had taken their toll, mellowing Isabela while they embittered Leliana.

But they hadn’t softened Isabela completely, and not to the extent a stranger had any right to know.

“Is there something about this place that makes everyone fucking miserable?” she asked, fingers pressed to her temples. “Some sort of ancient curse floating around? Andraste’s ass, _Kirkwall _was more cheerful!”

Her voice had gone too shrill, too loud, and those in the rookery with them turned their heads to stare, but what did it matter? The Inquisition could declare her a lunatic and send her home. That would be more than welcome.

“I see your penchant for blasphemy hasn’t changed,” Leliana noted, unfazed. The stares abated with a wave of her hand, and the hairs on the back of Isabela’s neck stood up. “It’s true, you have arrived at a… difficult time. I am sure Varric has told you of Haven, no?” She frowned briefly at Isabela’s nod, a crack in her armor, but Leliana patched it quickly, forcing her expression back into unsettling composure. “Our enemy has revealed himself, which should be a benefit for our side, but—”

“But he’s an immortal darkspawn magister no one actually knows how to properly kill, yes, I’m aware. It’s really put a damper on my mood, honestly,” Isabela said, flippancy a poor mask for paranoia. They were all Leliana’s men, here in the rookery. And elsewhere, too, no doubt. She should have known.

“We are pouring all our resources into stopping him,” Leliana insisted. “Hawke is part of that.”

Part of a gargantuan machine, maybe. A cog. Something to be pounded into shape, easily replaced when it no longer worked as it should. “Well, I can tell you she has no more ideas than anyone else. You were better off leaving us alone.”

“Do you think so? This letter may prove otherwise.”

Leliana pulled a folded sheet of parchment from her pocket and pressed it into Isabela’s hand. The wax seal was broken, a griffon’s head and wingtips split from its clawed feet. Isabela flicked the letter open just far enough to catch the signature. _Not Bethany_.

“Do you make a habit out of opening other people’s mail?” she asked, crumpling the letter in her fist and shoving it inside her coat.

“When that mail concerns the Inquisition,” Leliana countered, “then yes, I do. Especially when it comes from an old friend.”

“If he’s an old friend, you wouldn’t need Hawke’s help to find him, would you?” hissed Isabela. “So tell me, Leliana. Why exactly is she here?” 

She took a step forward and Leliana’s fingertips twitched reflexively toward the dagger at her hip.

“We wanted her to lead—”

“She won’t lead your _fucking_ Inquisition.”

All eyes were back on her, more hands subtly reaching for hidden weapons. No sounds but the croaks of ravens, the rain, and the pressure thudding against the inside of Isabela’s skull, her blood like caustic waves. But then Leliana nodded, and the air flowed back into the room.

“Yes, I know. It does not matter—we have a leader now, one who arouses far less suspicion than a sympathizer to the mage rebellion. Hawke is here for the same reason I am here, the same reason _you _are here. It’s why we are all here. To help.”

“Because Varric—”

“Sent the letter, because _I _chose not to send one of my own two years ago when I learned she was in Obera.” At last provoked to anger, Leliana chose to reveal her hand—all serpents. “This may surprise you, but being the lover of an infamous pirate admiral is hard to hide.”

The realization crept in like winter frost, like rot, and Isabela was left hollowed in its wake. It was her fault. All those jobs with Hawke beside her, all the boasting over pints dockside, all the rumors she fed, keeping her name on the tongues of friends and enemies alike. All of it to spite the Armada, to show she could be something without them. She wasn’t thinking about Hawke, about why they fled Kirkwall in the first place. She wasn’t thinking about any of it when she was able to wake up in the same bed with her each morning—how fragile it all truly was, like spun glass in her clumsy hands.

“If she gets hurt…” Isabela warned, but the threat was empty. What power did she have in a place like this? She was nothing on land, a mouse in a nest of vipers. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she turned toward the stairs, Leliana’s eyes and those of her men burning into the back of her head as she left.

“She knows the risks better than any of us,” Leliana called after her. “We are not your enemy, Isabela.”


	8. Coming Clean

The hall was full to bursting when Isabela returned; it teemed with soldiers and civilians alike, all trying to avoid the storm. There were more mages among them than she had noticed before. They huddled together in robed groups as far away from the others as they could manage—though never out of sight of the Inquisition’s templars, those shiny statues pretending enough people with ropes couldn’t pull them down.

She scanned the crowd and dared to hope, but Hawke wasn’t there. Not that Hawke would stand out much in this bunch, not like she did in Obera. These were her people. Did they still look like home to her, though? _Anywhere but Ferelden,_ Hawke had said that first night at sea when Isabela asked where she wanted to go, when what remained of Kirkwall’s chantry was still smoldering behind them. _I’ve seen enough of that country to last a lifetime._

Isabela didn’t know if Ferelden felt like home to Hawke anymore. She hadn’t thought to ask.

The walls and rafters trapped hundreds of voices, reverberating them into an indecipherable roar, a reflection of the turmoil echoing through her head. But Leliana’s words cut through the din like blades across throats. _Being the lover of an infamous pirate admiral is a hard thing to hide_. The Inquisition, or whatever it was called before, couldn’t find them when they kept moving, when they kept the sails full, a new country every other week. It was only when they stopped that the hounds could track them down, smelling the blood of sentimentality. But Rivain was supposed to be safe. Rivain was where people went to hide.

Another voice surfaced. _War will always find you._

Were Leliana’s agents in the fleet, too? Had they slipped beneath Isabela’s notice when stability made her complacent? Was Divine Justinia told of Hawke’s whereabouts through one of the dozens of swabbies manning the ships? Or were the traitors higher up the chain? One of the boatswains, maybe? Her quartermaster? Even a captain? Between Varric and the Nightingale, how many of Isabela’s men were compromised?

Isabela picked her way through the crowd, sickness twisting in her gut. It was all a mistake. Hawke would have been safer without her. But why didn’t they try to contact Hawke before? Why wait for Varric to make the decision on his own? Did they really think Hawke would resist a plea for help? Or perhaps they thought her support of mage freedom too large a risk for a leader and assumed it would ebb with time. They underestimated Hawke’s stubbornness.

She kept to the edges of the hall, avoiding the largest clumps of people clustered in the center. So many strangers, talking and laughing, shielded by the Inquisition’s walls, and she was alone, skin crawling under their curious glances. So much like her first night in Kirkwall, sleeping with rats in a Lowtown ditch. Or further back, begging for coppers with her mother at the outskirts of the market in Afsaana, offered nothing from their marks but pity or scorn.

She suddenly wanted to scream.

Braving the pouring rain to return to the tower would be preferable to staying there, she decided. If Hawke was still unwilling to open up by the time she came back, she could sit in moody silence next to her. Or leave. It was Isabela’s fucking room, too, and she wouldn’t be made to wait outside like a chastised dog. They needed to talk. There was no one else to trust, and without release, the fear would eat her from the inside out.

Sidling under scaffolding and half-wishing it would collapse on her head, she heard a booming laugh from the other end of the hall and turned in time to catch a glimpse of…

Horns.

Time halted, reversed, and she was pushing Siren’s Call into the storm with the Tome of Koslun clutched in her arms and dreadnoughts at her flank, the cracks of their cannons promising revenge. Time lurched forward, and that same Tome was shoved into the Arishok’s claws, her sins forgiven until he demanded her body to use and her mind to break, until his sword exploded out of Hawke’s back.

She flinched, nearly falling over a man seated against the wall in her haste to escape. Ignoring his shout, she ducked into an alcove, pressing herself against the stone and praying it would swallow her. Her mouth felt like sand, tasted like the brackish tides of the Wounded Coast. The memories carried by time’s erratic stream washed over her, and she fought to keep her breathing steady, flailing for the present. When she could at last bring herself to peer around the corner, heart pounding in her throat, she saw him, or rather, she saw the back of his head, towering over the humans and elves beside him.

What was a Qunari doing here? No, he had to be Vashoth; a real Qunari wouldn’t want any part of an organization like the Inquisition. Nor would one bother coming this far south, either, at least not with peaceful intentions. Her reasoning offered little comfort. She would give him a wide berth.

Isabela made for the opposite end of the great hall, away from the throne at its apex, the one that reminded her too much of Kirkwall, too much of Hawke’s blood spreading over the throne room floor. There were too many people. Too small a space. Skyhold’s vaulted ceilings were towering, but they made little difference to one without wings.

Now nearly at a run, she stumbled past the confused guards at the entrance and then down the steps into the courtyard. The rain pelted her, cold and sharp, but the air felt cleaner, unfettered, and she could have cried with relief as she drank it in.

Until she started to shiver. Perhaps bolting out into a storm wasn’t the best idea.

There was almost certainly a better way to their tower, one that didn’t involve scaling more stairs up to the battlements and following them to the other side of the bloody castle, but she wasn’t about to try searching for it now. So she retraced the route she took that afternoon, the stone slick under her boots as she clambered up the ramparts.

When she at last arrived to the room the Inquisition had so thoughtfully given them at the ass-end of Skyhold, she was soaked to the bone and fit to kill. But she would not be angry. She would be calm, she would be controlled, and she would talk things out with Hawke in a mature, reasonable fashion.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

There were their packs, crumpled against the far wall, empty. Their clothes were nowhere to be seen, likely neatly folded and tucked away into the trunk at the foot of the bed. A fire sputtered in the hearth, half-alive, lending some meager warmth to her clammy skin.

But no Hawke.

Her breath came out as a heavy sigh, and Isabela closed the door behind her. She peeled off her sodden clothes, but not before fishing Alistair’s letter from her pocket. Thankfully—though she wasn’t sure how thankful she really was—it had remained dry. After throwing on one of Hawke’s robes, she looked for a place to put the letter.

Her eyes were drawn to the desk, covered in a lumpy bolt of cloth. When she unwrapped it, she found all her blades, from her largest daggers to her smallest throwing knives, freshly cleaned and sharpened. _Oh, Hawke_. Isabela couldn’t help but smile, imagining Hawke angrily polishing the nicks out of each blade. Hawke always turned to mindless physical activity when she was upset: walking for miles, cleaning the entire house, punishing a hapless training dummy. She said it helped clear her head. Isabela wasn’t sure if it worked, but given how her own previous methods of handling unwanted emotions—drinking herself unconscious, getting into fistfights, fucking strangers—tended to go, maybe Hawke had the right idea.

Next to the knives sat a platter of biscuits and pastries, along with a flagon and two empty cups. Hawke had apparently found the kitchen. Isabela put her nose to the flagon and sniffed. Wine. With a shrug, she poured herself a cup, took a sip, and immediately felt the burn of fresh tears. Antivan, as sweet as Varric’s Orlesian red was dry.

Hawke wasn’t mad. She might not be there, but she wasn’t mad. It was comforting, the most relief Isabela had felt since the moment Torshek arrived at their door, Varric’s letter stashed in his coat.

Leaving the parchment on the desk, she sipped the wine and nibbled at the food, the day’s stresses not leaving her particularly famished. But if she didn’t eat, the chances of waking up hungry in the middle of the night were high, leaving the chances of remembering her childhood higher still. Not worth the risk. So she ate and tried not to miss Rivaini food too much, but the lamb pie and apple tart just didn’t compare, didn’t leave her lips tingling, her tongue overwhelmed.

Still, it was better than galley slop. If she was going to be stuck in Ferelden for the immediate future, she supposed she would have to get used to it.

There would be a lot to get used to.

The wine sang its boozy lullabies, a potent persuasion, and Isabela felt her eyelids growing heavy. No point in waiting up for Hawke; she’d be back. Hawke was never one to leave. Isabela tossed another log onto the fire and prodded it back to life before burrowing under the pile of blankets Josephine had been kind enough to procure. Though, now that she thought about it, that fur throw on top wasn’t there before.

With the storm fading to the south, it was eerily quiet. Nightfall had driven everyone into their respective holes, and the people of Skyhold, apparently, weren’t given to evening revelry like pirates. The mountain wind offered the only respite from snow-choked silence, whistling against the windows in their tower.

Isabela wrapped the blankets tighter around herself, like they could substitute for Hawke’s arms, like they could shield her from the consequences of her choices. The choice to follow, to sacrifice, to care. The choice to love, with all its aches and confusion, fortifying parts of her while revealing cracks elsewhere, wounds never quite healed.

But it was still her choice. And she would cling to that autonomy, those bits of freedom. She would sooner die than surrender it, no matter how hard the puppeteers tried to tug her strings. She would cling to love because it was all she had, and because the alternative, she knew, was so much worse.

Sleep didn’t come easy. It never had, not for her. But it did arrive eventually, burying her tumultuous thoughts under a mountain’s worth of snow.

* * *

The path leads down, steeper than she should be able to navigate, sharp like a cliffside, but when she steps forward, her bare foot lands sure on pebbles smoothed by tides. Water slides in on a tilted axis, lapping against her toes, horizontal where it should be vertical, a sideways waterfall. The sensation flips her stomach, and Isabela closes her eyes, but that only makes the vertigo worse. So she forces them open, focusing on a misty green horizon as she walks simultaneously forward and down. A sailor’s trick for an oceanless world, but it works to still her nerves.

_—can give us a purpose—_

Tiny rocks and tinier seashells crush painfully between her toes. But it’s safer than straying off the path into millions of jagged shards of lyrium carpeting the earth, rose-red. The world curves ahead of her, wrapped in a fog so thick it seems to catch in her lungs with every breath, like chokedamp.

—_listen for once in your life_—

She presses forward, unable to turn around. Shadows flicker on the edges of her vision, though each time she turns, there is nothing but empty sky beside her. Empty, but never alone, not when the shadows keep coming back. A deep breath to calm herself, and sulfur and cinnamon burn in her nostrils. The air here is too heavy. Her feet ache, raw and angry. She ignores the pain and walks faster.

_Stupid child, why can’t you—_

Whispers worm through the ether, snatches of conversation she _should _remember, but her brain is sluggish, denying her comprehension. Saltwater stings as it licks at her feet, and when she turns her head, she sees a mile of bloody footprints on the stones behind her, trailing up into the heavens. The shadows are coming closer now, braver, and she can’t possibly outrun them, but she tries, every step agonizing.

_—because I love you—_

Something touches her, brushes against her cheek with a hiss like a punctured lung, like a death rattle. She flinches, gasps, and the shadow takes it as an invitation, plunging into her mouth.

_Naishe!_

Isabela falls to her knees.

_Worthless dog!_

The whispers burst into screams, and then she _knows_, brutal clarity granted by the memories in her throat, so cold it burns, leaving blisters with its violation. A strangled cry tears itself from her chest, but her voice is not her own, not anymore.

She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.

There is another voice now, one that does not belong to her or _her_. “She’s not you. You’re not her. She continued the cycle, but you don’t have to. You can be the one who breaks it.” It sounds like a young man, but her eyes have slammed shut. “This isn’t—”

* * *

“—real.”

Isabela opened her eyes and sucked in a breath like it was her first. Or maybe her last. And then another, and another, until her heart stopped racing, until she was certain she wasn’t dying. But the dream still gripped her, replaying on the backs of her eyelids, and she couldn’t be entirely sure her insides were free from shadows.

But she was not alone. Hawke had apparently crept into bed sometime during the night and was soundly asleep, warm where she curled against Isabela’s side—unaware of the nightmare plaguing Isabela’s mind, just as unaware of their earlier conflict, the one left unresolved. She was at peace, and Isabela didn’t want to ruin that, but…

“Hawke.”

When Hawke didn’t respond, Isabela rolled to face her and said her name again, louder, threaded with panic. The memories were winning, the ones the Fade had so cruelly unlocked from their prison.

Hawke made a sound that might have been Isabela’s name, garbled into nonsense by sleep’s persistent grasp. “You okay?” she mumbled, clumsily, instinctively reaching for Isabela in the dark.

“Just a bad dream,” Isabela said, allowing Hawke to pull her close. Then she tucked her head under Hawke’s chin, took a deep breath of nothing but her, and cried.

Immediately, Hawke was fully awake, her arms tight around Isabela’s shoulders. “I’m here,” she whispered, her breath warm against the crown of Isabela’s head. “I’m here.”

But the tears would not abate. Each and every one of Isabela’s fears poured out of her, everything she had tried to hold in, to ignore, to destroy. She shook in Hawke’s embrace, sobbing, gasping, like the nightmare had yet to cease, like the darkness was still trapped in her throat. She cried until she thought she might vomit. She cried until there was nothing left, nothing but the husk of a woman who once thought herself indomitable.

And when she was done, she pulled away from the damp spot she had left on Hawke’s chest and said, “I’m so scared.”

Hawke was silent for a time, her own tears slipping off her chin to wet Isabela’s forehead. “So am I,” she said at last, when Isabela’s sniffles were almost gone. “I’m fucking terrified.”

And there it was, laid bare for no one else to hear.

“What are you afraid of?” Isabela asked, her voice coming out hoarse and congested. She cringed at the momentary intrusion of night air as Hawke threw the covers aside to rummage for something on the floor beside the bed.

Hawke emerged with a handkerchief, and Isabela blew her nose for what felt like an eternity. Why did crying have to be such a messy business? She tossed the handkerchief aside, one more thing to be dealt with in the morning, and settled her head against Hawke’s chest, the blankets tugged up to her chin.

One shaky inhale, then an exhale, and Hawke spoke like she wore a noose. “I’m scared this is my fault. That I can’t fix it. That I’m going to lose more people I love.” Her voice shrank to little more than a whisper. “Losing you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I might be scared, but I’m not leaving.”

“That’s not what—”

“I know that’s not what you meant. And believe me, I’ve no intention of doing that, either.”

Death. Hawke meant death—like her father, like her brother, like her mother. But death had come for Isabela a hundred, a thousand times, and she always left it empty-handed. It would not take her.

Hawke seemed satisfied with Isabela’s conviction, her breathing steadied to gentle tides. “Why are _you_ scared?” she asked.

Despite the countless reasons whirling through her mind, Isabela could grab none of them to articulate into words. What _was _she afraid of, really? She used to laugh in the face of danger, howling with glee as she sailed into maelstroms, taking swings at men three times her size. Fear was for those with something to live for.

“Do you remember that day in my room back in Kirkwall, a little while after I came back? When you agreed to leave with me if things got too bad to handle?”

“Yes.” Hawke laughed quietly, more air than sound. “I still don’t know how you convinced me.”

“We… we don’t have that option anymore, do we? To leave,” Isabela said, and she had never felt so small. Fear was for those with something to lose.

Hawke pondered it for a time. “I don’t think so,” she said. “If Corypheus accomplishes his plans, it doesn’t matter where we go. It probably doesn’t feel like it, but I think it’s a good thing the Inquisition found us first.”

Her hand brushed across Isabela’s shoulder, over the rose tattoo, and guilt bloomed anew. “They’d already found us years ago.”

“What?”

“I spoke with Leliana. She knew we were in Obera.”

Hawke went still, her breath catching for a moment, a brief counter-current. Isabela didn’t know if Hawke was aware of Leliana’s appointment within the Inquisition, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise; Leliana was, after all, the only thing that had prevented an Exalted March on Kirkwall. Her reach was fathomless and terrifying.

“How?” Hawke asked, but she had to know, didn’t she?

“Because of me.” The truth came out easier than any lie. “She knew of my connection to you and about my reputation, so she planted spies in the fleet. They knew where we were the whole time.”

She waited for the backlash. It didn’t come.

Instead, Hawke rubbed slow circles around the back of Isabela’s neck with her fingertips. “But why would they wait so long to contact me, then?” she asked, echoing Isabela’s earlier thoughts in the great hall, though hers seemed more curious than perturbed. “Why have Varric do it?”

“I don’t know,” Isabela said, still bracing, demanding retaliation. “But does it matter? If you weren’t with me—”

“I don’t want to think of a world where I was never with you.”

Isabela had thought of it, of course. In her darkest moments, the ones born under the moon during her flight from Kirkwall, she had wished for it on every star. She wished to have never set foot in that bar, to have never allowed the answer to her problem to become a problem on its own, one so much bigger than Castillon and the Armada. She had prayed to any god listening, begged them to never again let her crack her ribcage open for another.

But those thoughts remained buried alongside the road from the Free Marches to Rivain. When she came back, there was no question.

“Hawke…” Her retort faded into a sigh, then into a kiss as Hawke tilted her chin up to bring their lips together.

And Isabela made her choice. She would stay, despite the fear. Fear was for those who knew love.

“I should’ve told you,” Hawke said, eyes glimmering even in the waning firelight. “About Corypheus, and… everything I’ve felt since I got that letter. I’m sorry. I just…”

“Didn’t want to worry me. I know,” Isabela finished, interrupting Hawke’s embarrassed laugh with another kiss. And then it was her turn. She closed her eyes, preparing the words in her mouth, though they had never left her mind since that afternoon. “And I’m sorry, too. I guess I wanted Varric to admit his guilt so… so I wouldn’t have to. But I let my anger get the better of me.”

“We talked after you left. He’s not mad at you. I mean, you weren’t wrong, what you said to him. He’s scared to death, same as us, and contacting me was the only thing he could think to do. And there’s…” Hawke paused, swallowed. “There is no plan.”

“So what do we do?”

“We try.”

And there was the reason the hole in Isabela’s chest had never managed to close, why her prayers during her escape went unanswered. Why their love endured in defiance of her every attempt to kill it. Because Hawke always tried.

“What does it say about me that I want to believe that’s enough?” Isabela asked.

Hawke smiled and kissed her nose. “That you’re in love, probably.”

“Shit, you’re right.” Huffing dramatically, Isabela pulled Hawke against her, a thief stealing warmth instead of coin for a change. “Can’t think of any other reason I’d let myself get dragged into such foolishness.”

“Aw, I love you, too.”

“Shut up,” Isabela grumbled. “Of course I love you. That’s why I’m not touching you with these blocks of ice that used to be my feet.”

Hawke yanked her own feet away a safe distance. “How are you cold? I even asked Josephine for an extra blanket!”

“I’m afraid I’m just not built for mountains, my darling Fereldan. But…” And she remembered the last time, the muggy morning before Varric’s letter—a few weeks and a lifetime ago. “I could think of a few ways you might warm me up.”

Hawke grinned, apparently taking the less-than-subtle hint. “If you insist,” she said playfully, shifting until she had Isabela pinned underneath her, so blissfully warm, her skin burning under Isabela’s hands.

And when Hawke kissed her again, full of faith, full of forgiveness, Isabela was no longer afraid.


	9. The Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saoirse’s name is pronounced “SEER-sha.” Also, in case anyone is confused, Isabela keeps referring to the Inquisition as a Chantry organization because she has no reason to think that it isn’t one yet.

The Inquisitor was a bitch.

A harsh evaluation, perhaps, but Isabela knew a bitch when she saw one. And when she saw Saoirse Trevelyan approaching, not even walking but _marching_, some redheaded southern girl with a stick up her ass so long she could spit splinters, Isabela knew.

Varric accompanied Saoirse, practically trotting to keep up with her brisk strides. When he saw Isabela, he slowed, his brows pinching together. But then he nodded, smiled, and it was water under the bridge. At least for now—Isabela never could resist the urge to swim in places she shouldn’t.

Isabela opted to remain at the periphery, observing. The “Inquisitor” (a horrific title, truly) had called for Hawke to meet her in the courtyard as soon as she returned from eastern Ferelden. She still wore her armor and weapons, apparently finding a change of clothes and a bath an unnecessary interruption. Isabela looked her over. Two blades on her back, unequal sizes—they made for a less flashy, more efficient fighting style than Isabela tended to use. One more blade on her right hip. The peeking edge of a holster under her coat likely indicated another, as did the slight gap in the top of her left boot. She was prepared. Bracers on her forearms held either lockpicks or throwing knives; Isabela was too far away to tell.

A thief, then? Or a mercenary? Interesting choice for a leader. But something in her posture was off. The rogues Isabela knew had a carefree swagger, an ease to their movements, if not naturally, then practiced. Nothing like this woman. Saoirse was tight, controlled, ignoring the world around her, ignoring the throngs of people gazing in… what was it? Admiration? Fear? They likely could have spit on her without her noticing. She walked through them as though they didn’t exist, deaf to their reverent murmurs.

Strange. Isabela couldn’t place her. The name “Trevelyan” was bland as watery gruel, blending with every other surname south of Antiva. She could be noble-born—it would explain that stuck-up bearing, that disdainful glower—but she moved like a soldier. There was training in those steps.

But what did Isabela know? Hawke was a soldier, too, even if those days were long behind her. Not that anyone would know, not with the way she watched Saoirse approach her, one hand on her hip, a cockeyed smirk on her lips. Hawke wouldn’t be intimidated by a fancy title or a frigid countenance.

Saoirse didn’t bother to shake Hawke’s hand. Nor did she bother to speak until Varric introduced her.

“The Inquisitor, Saoirse Trevelyan,” he said, completely bereft of pomp and circumstance. He gave no indication of the grandeur of her position, merely a wry smile, like this was all part of some private joke. He saved the deference for Hawke: “And this… is Hawke. The one and only,” he added, and he might as well have been introducing the bloody Divine herself.

If Saoirse registered any disrespect, she didn’t show it, offering Hawke a curt nod. “I’m told you have information about Corypheus,” she said.

A Marcher, judging by the clipped accent, though the way she delivered her words—flat and featureless as a Blight-stricken plain—muddied Isabela’s guess. Was she a Kirkwaller? Or more eastern? Her appearance offered little clues. Pale skin disguised by freckles and dust from the road, hair a bit darker than Aveline’s in a neat braid down her back, eyes like chipped ice. Taller than Isaebla, not as tall as Hawke. Pretty enough, Isabela could admit, but nothing remarkable.

What _was _remarkable, however, was the unearthly green glow emanating from her left hand through her glove. It was faint, like morning spiderwebs across a doorway, and Isabela found it difficult to tear her eyes away from it, even as Hawke spoke.

“Well, _I _don’t necessarily have information about Corypheus,” she started, and Isabela looked up in time to catch something twitch in Saoirse’s brow, “but I know someone who might.”

“Good.” The Inquisitor’s face returned to carved marble. “Who?”

“A Grey Warden named Alistair. Seems like a charming enough fellow, though it’d be nice if he could give a straight answer on—” and Isabela could almost hear Hawke rolling her eyes, “—well, anything, really. But his most recent letter seems promising.”

Hawke pulled the letter free from her satchel and passed it to Saoirse, who unfolded it and quickly read through the short message. So, she was literate. No backcountry peasant, then.

“If this man is in Crestwood, we need to mount a search,” Saoirse declared, refolding the letter and placing it in her coat. Her tone suggested debate was out of the question. “I will tell Leliana to ready her scouts. We can be there in a week’s time. Perhaps faster if the weather favors us.”

Isabela bit the inside of her cheek to keep from spitting venom. The soldiers near Saoirse, still sweating and filthy from their journey, exchanged looks with one another, some more subtly incredulous than others. Was she mad? Less than an hour home, and she would turn around and march them back across Ferelden. _This _was the Inquisition’s leader? _This _was the woman Leliana pledged herself to after the Divine’s death?

A stammered reply began to tumble from Hawke’s mouth, but Varric interrupted, heedless of how winter seemed to settle over the courtyard as Saoirse trained her gaze on him.

“Whoa there, Herald,” he said. “You’re gonna spook the poor guy if you send the whole Inquisition after him.” He turned to Isabela, still smirking, so assured. “Hawke and Isabela know him already. Maybe they can go ahead of the main group? Get him comfortable, make him talk.”

At the mention of her name, Isabela saw Saoirse’s eyes flick toward her, as though she was only just now aware of Isabela’s existence. Already done with this farce mere moments after it had begun, Isabela could barely force her lips into an imitation of a smile. Given her mood, it was likely closer to a sneer.

Not that Saoirse responded. She faced Hawke again, a motionless effigy in contrast to Hawke’s constant fidgeting. Silence hung in the air like humid static before a storm.

“Fine,” she said.

A suppressed yet audible collective sigh issued from the gathered soldiers. Hawke chewed on a fingernail while Isabela fought the urge to swat her hand away from her mouth. She couldn’t imagine Saoirse would wait long for them to seek out Alistair. No, Isabela would probably be packing her bags for a week-long trek this evening. Lovely.

Varric looked at her then, and she could have sworn he shook his head, huffing something halfway between a sigh and a chuckle through his nose. But then he turned back to Saoirse and put his hand up to—almost, not quite—touch her arm.

“I know the trip back from the Hinterlands is a nasty one,” he said gently. “Go on and get some rest. We’ll take care of it.”

With that, the Inquisitor seemed to deflate, and something tired, something _human_ flashed across her face as her shoulders slumped. She nodded, and, without another word, she started walking toward the hall, each step heavier than the ones that carried her through Skyhold’s gates.

As she passed, Isabela felt compelled to say something. Nothing close to what she wanted to say, what burned in her chest since the moment this woman’s Inquisition pulled them into this mess, but—

“Leliana was the first to read that letter, so I’m sure her people are already swarming the area,” Isabela said, and it came out far softer, so much more reassuring than she wanted, and she didn’t know why.

Saoirse paused to look at her—no, to _inspect _her. How old was she, Isabela wondered, apropos of nothing, an excuse to avoid thinking of how exposed she felt with Saoirse studying her. It was hard to tell. Younger than Hawke, maybe, but the dirt lining the Inquisitor’s face made estimating more difficult.

“I was not informed anyone else would be accompanying the Champion,” Saoirse said.

That fucking title. It was all Hawke was to these people. And why wouldn't it be? From the looks of things, “The Inquisitor” was all Saoirse was to the men and women following her. A symbol. A figurehead. A glowing hand with a body attached to it.

“_Hawke_,” Isabela corrected, and there was that harshness she felt, comforting in its sharpness, “doesn’t like to do what’s expected. And neither do I.”

She thought her insubordination would provoke some anger. Or intimidation, or fear. A laugh, even. Something. But there was no narrowing of eyes, no clenching of jaws or fists, no quickening of breath. No reaction at all. Saoirse looked at her, looked _through_ her, and then she walked away.

“You get used to it,” Varric told Isabela, appearing suddenly by her side. “I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but I swear there’s a real human in there somewhere. I even got her to crack a smile, once.”

“I bet you a sovereign I can make her laugh before you do.” And there was Hawke, no worse for wear after enduring such a tense introduction. She wrapped an arm around Isabela’s shoulders.

Isabela smiled. If Hawke could keep Fenris and Anders from killing each other for seven years, she could certainly handle the Inquisitor. “I don’t know, Hawke,” she teased. “Varric once made me laugh so hard I pissed myself.”

Hawke, of course, would not be made to back down from such a challenge. “As I recall, _I _once made you laugh so hard you shot beer out your nose. I think that’s worth just as much as soiled pants. Two sovereigns, then, and a round of whatever’s worth drinking here.”

They laughed, remembering those merciful gaps, those oases in Kirkwall’s chaos, and Isabela dared to hope they could go back to how things were before. When they sat on mismatched chairs in the Hanged Man’s bar, cards in one hand, a pint in the other, sweet, perfect lies keeping them all afloat.

“Deal,” Varric said, and he briefly clasped Hawke’s hand before shoving his own back in his pocket. “I, uh… don’t want to rush you two or anything, but it might be best if we head out for Crestwood sooner rather than later. Saoirse’s not exactly the patient sort.”

Why was she not surprised?

“Ready to see more of Ferelden?” Hawke asked, giving Isabela’s arm a squeeze. “We have cornfields and mud! Far as the eye can see!”

“Now now, don’t go short-changing your home,” Varric mock-scolded. “It’s not just cornfields and mud. There’s also wheatfields and dirt!”

Isabela sighed. Traipsing across Ferelden to meet some Grey Warden in a desperate attempt to help some ridiculous Chantry organization. What had her life become?

Someone cleared their throat nearby. The sound came from a man leaning against a tree, one Isabela had assumed was one of Saoirse’s soldiers. He was older, with deep lines across his forehead and streaks of grey glimmering through his dark brown hair and beard. But he held himself like a man much younger, competent and strong.

“Pardon me for eavesdropping,” he said. “But if you’re planning on searching for this Warden… I’d like to join you.”


	10. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a less than friendly meeting with the Inquisitor, Hawke, Isabela, Blackwall, and Varric arrive in Crestwood, hoping the Warden Alistair can give them some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've chosen to deliberately ignore some of the more "video game-y" aspects of Inquisition. So if you're wondering where the dragon, the Red Templars, or the lake zombies are... they got put on the chopping block for the sake of my sanity :)
> 
> Also, part of the fun (?) of writing Inquisition fic is trying to solve the horrid pacing problems of the game. Thus, Alistair knows less about where the Wardens are than he does in-game. I promise there's a reason for it, but it won't show up until later.
> 
> There is some graphic violence in this chapter.

“Did you think of a name for your horse yet?”

Warden Blackwall was a man of few words; Isabela had discovered as much in the past week’s journey from Skyhold. Apparently, however, he was more than willing to use those few words to badger her about her horse’s _name_, of all things. At least once a day, in fact.

“You really are concerned about this, aren’t you? I don’t think he cares what his name is. Do you?” she asked her horse, a spirited dun gelding the Inquisition’s horse-master had allowed her to pick for herself—after a large amount of persuasion and, perhaps, a tiny bit of threat-making.

The horse twitched his ears in her direction but gave no other response. That would have to be answer enough; a Mabari he was not.

She missed Brutus.

“A name’s important,” Blackwall pressed. “If he doesn’t have a name, how is he supposed to know who he is?”

How, indeed. She remembered those few months when she was no longer Naishe but not yet Isabela, when she was no one and nothing at all, just a sixteen year-old widow owning naught but shame. Unsure of what else to do, she had stolen onto a pirate ship and begged the captain in some ugly mixture of Antivan and Common to please give her a job. He had accepted, though whether out of pity or perversion, she couldn’t tell.

_“Do you have a name? Who are you?” he asked her._

_“I don’t know,” she replied, and it was the truth._

_“Well, you are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” She nodded, because that was all she was to him, to Luis, to all of them. “Isabela, then. That’ll be your name.”_

And so it was. It had felt strange at first, uncomfortable, like the hilt on a new dagger before it was broken in. But she couldn’t bear to be Naishe anymore, so “Isabela” would have to do. The name stuck, filling in all the cracks Luis and Hari had left behind, until she _was_ Isabela, and nothing before that mattered.

The trail stretched out before them between her horse’s ears, the hard frost of the mountains giving way to lush grass as they went deeper into Ferelden. Summer had barely begun, but the midday sun squinting through the clouds offered enough warmth to almost make up for the misery of the Frostbacks. It smelled like life, like mud and trampled weeds.

And sometimes, Isabela would look for Hawke and see her smiling at the tiny purple flowers clustered along the edge of the trail or at the dogs barking outside barns as they passed, and the love swelling in her chest was enough to take her breath away.

That was a feeling only Isabela could know. Not Naishe, and not whoever she was in between.

So maybe Blackwall had a point. But his question wasn’t meant for her.

“He’s a horse,” she stated. “He’s ‘supposed’ to carry my ass across Ferelden, and that’s it. You’re doing a marvelous job of it, by the way,” she added, reaching down to give his neck a quick rub. She glanced back at Blackwall. “Did _your_ parents have some great purpose in mind when they named you ‘Gordon Blackwall?’”

He stared into the distance, out to the mist-blanketed valley where Hawke said Crestwood would be, frowning slightly. “Not likely,” he answered at last, then fell silent.

Isabela knew better than to dig. Knowing the Wardens, she’d find nothing but graves. “Fine, fine. I’ll name him, if it’ll stop your pouting,” she said. “Let’s see, how about—oh, I don’t know—_Zalya_.”

Hawke, riding slightly ahead of them and doing a piss-poor job of pretending not to eavesdrop, turned around in her saddle, but a pointed look from Isabela stifled her opinion before it could leave her mouth.

“Is that Rivaini?” Blackwall asked, and when she nodded, he asked her what it meant.

It meant “horse.” Not that the word was in common parlance. Horses weren’t popular in Rivain—too expensive to feed given what little use they would offer. She hadn’t learned to ride until Antiva. Luis had bought her one of those stupid prancing ponies he and the other nobles were so fond of, and so horseback riding practice was added to her never-ending series of aristocratic lessons. It had been pleasurable, admittedly, a chance to escape from the confines of Luis’s _palazzo_—if only to an adjacent fenced ring. Until her mare broke a stablehand’s jaw with an errant kick. Luis had blamed Isabela, of course, declaring the horse “mimicked her savagery.” In truth, she had wanted to be more like her mare. She had longed for the power to shatter every one of his bones.

Old thoughts. She took a deep breath, hay and damp earth and shit, and let the memories blow away like dust on her exhale. Blackwall stared at her, curious and expectant. She _could_ give him the real translation. But where was the fun in being honest?

“It means ‘cock.’”

He blinked, tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard her right, and then, for the first time that week, he laughed. It came out a hoarse bark, like his throat wasn’t used to making such a sound, and he doubled over on his horse, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Maker,” he choked out. “Why would you name the poor beast that?”

She shrugged. “It’s the closest I get to having one between my legs these days.”

That earned her another round of guffaws from Blackwall, this time with Hawke joining in, her attempt at a scathing glare foiled by giggles. They were loud enough to draw the attention of the forward scouts nearly five hundred feet down the trail and send a group of fennecs bolting into the trees.

“Is she always like this?” Blackwall asked Varric, who was trailing behind them on a pony every bit as grumpy venturing into nature as her rider.

“Nah,” he said, sharing a knowing smile with Hawke as she fell in line with the trio. “Hawke mellowed her out.”

Isabela scoffed. “Keep pushing, and I’ll show you just how _mellow_ I am, Varric.”

She had no poison left to coat her words, and he knew it. Their first night on the way to Crestwood was spent in silence, sharing little more than moody glances across the fire, the atmosphere colder than the mountain air surrounding their camp. The second night threatened to be a repeat of the first until Hawke grew impatient with playing diplomat and demanded they talk to one another like adults, dammit. Varric budged first, reluctantly shuffling around the fire to sit beside Isabela while Hawke conveniently left to hunt for more firewood with Blackwall.

There were no heartfelt confessions, no pourings of feelings and tears. Only two awkward apologies and a melange of jokes and innuendos, the usual layers of bullshit and bluster. Window dressing, maybe, but it didn’t matter. There had always been a tacit understanding between them—the accord of two people far too alike for their own good.

“We both want to keep Hawke safe,” he had said, one of the few forthright statements he managed that night.

And he was right. She might not have an army or advisors or a glowing hand, but if this Corypheus so much as looked at Hawke, Isabela would rip apart the sky herself and bury him the deepest pits of the Fade. Of that she was sure.

* * *

Deep in Crestwood’s eastern hills, they followed a half-overgrown trail on foot through scrubby weeds and clumps of wildflowers until there was no trail to follow, only knee-high—waist-high on Varric—grass and Hawke’s earnest promises that yes, she knew _exactly_ where she was going, she had run away to these hills dozens of times in her youth, and didn’t Harding say Alistair was spotted somewhere north of Trout Pond, and _there_ was Trout Pond right—

“Shh!” Varric interrupted, and Hawke’s protests died on her lips. He motioned for them to stop, voice pitched low. “Wait. You hear that?”

Isabela stood still, ignoring the scratches of razor-leafed shrubs against her hands, and listened. It was difficult to catch over the wind, but… there. The dull rumble of mens’ voices, dampened by the hills but still recognizable. She couldn’t pick out any specific words or even how many men there were, not at this distance. She looked at Hawke. Hawke had her eyes closed, picking out the echoes from the endless bluffs and valleys, summoning ancient memories Isabela could only guess at, twenty year-old maps etched into the surface of her mind.

Hawke turned north and, without another word, started walking. Isabela followed, hands flirting with the hilts of her daggers, Blackwall and Varric at the rear. Hawke’s guess was rewarded as the voices grew steadily louder, angrier, and soon they could hear words, harsh snatches of sentences, baritones and tenors.

“—best pay up if you’re—”

“Wait, everyone just—”

“—whose toes you’re treading on—”

The argument seemed to be coming from within a cavern, one of the many tucked into the foothills. It explained the echoes, at least. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just wait here and see if they sort themselves out?” Isabela whispered to Hawke. There had to be at least a dozen in there; they couldn’t even be sure Alistair was among them.

And maybe Isabela wasn’t especially keen on caves.

But then someone growled, cruel and mocking, “Your Warden friends aren’t here to help you, are they?”

Before Isabela could think of another excuse to stop them, Hawke and Blackwall were off, flattening a swath of grass each as they sprinted toward the cave with weapons drawn. Varric was soon to follow, muttering curses and tugging Bianca free from her holster on his back.

The cave swallowed them and the sun both, offering only the dim glow of deep mushrooms to light their way, a blue blur of crevices and stony nodules. Their footsteps reverberated noisily off the walls, alternating thuds and sloshes as they splashed through puddles. There was nothing to follow but the voices. Isabela prayed she wouldn’t trip.

They rounded a corner and the floor turned rust-colored. Torchlight. Isabela looked up to see a makeshift door in front of them. More a scrap of wood, really, wedged into a bottleneck of stone. There was something painted on it: a round swatch of white, a slash of red across it, and—

“Hawke!” Isabela shouted, but the Raider sigil disappeared from view as Hawke kicked the door in.

The argument inside came to an abrupt stop, quickly replaced by the thunderous crack of Blackwall’s shield slamming into a face. Then Hawke’s sword ripped through a midsection, covering the moldy stench of the cavern with the sharp tang of fresh blood.

Isabela slid around them, searching for an opening. She got one soon enough when a crossbow bolt whistled over her shoulder—_too close, Varric_—and into a raider’s arm. He spun, anticipating her attack, a grimace of pain twisting his face. Not one of her men, to her knowledge, but his mouth dropped open in recognition, eyes wide and blinking. The first syllable of her name left his lips in a wet gurgle as her dagger bit into his neck.

Better not have been one of hers.

The cavern was a smuggler’s hideaway, not meant to hold the amount of people currently packed into it; Isabela couldn’t see Alistair through the crowd, if he was even there. Her pulse hammered in her skull; the adrenaline did little to blunt the relentless pressure of the stone walls surrounding her. She allowed the claustrophobia to narrow her focus to the immediate moment, the body in front of her, a body clothed in colorful Rivaini fabric, not Warden blue and silver. She focused on its movements, on the sword in its fist now swinging towards her. Batting it away with her right blade, she let the left plunge in. The body crumpled, red blood on red cloth. Another soon took its place.

This one was more aggressive, shoving her back on her heels with a flurry of strikes. He smiled, and Isabela had the sudden, nauseating suspicion that he knew her, that the promise of cutting down a traitor to the Armada was fueling his wild swings. She deflected each blow, hoping he would tire, waiting for him to make a mistake she could punish, but there was nothing, only an increasing ache in her arms with every hit she blocked. Something cold and hard pressed into her back. The wall. The edges of her vision went black and hazy, surrounding the white of the pirate’s grin in a telescoped view. Then that white was speckled with foamy pink spittle and he dropped to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

Hawke stood behind him, dagger in hand. Isabela felt a ludicrous rush of pride as she finished the job, matching the hole in his back with one in his chest. “You’re learning!” she crowed.

“From the best,” Hawke replied with a smile. She jammed the knife in her belt and leapt back into the fray, appearing at Varric’s flank in time to skewer a raider looking to bash him over the head with a wicked-looking cudgel.

Isabela pivoted away from the wall—fucking _caves_—and blinked away the cobwebs. Blackwall and Hawke fought side by side, circling around and atop bodies like so many felled trees. Three—no, four—pirates were left standing in front of them, pressed into the narrow back end of the cavern. Then three when a well-aimed shot from Bianca took one in the eye. Isabela pulled a throwing knife from her bracer and pinched the tip of the blade between her fingers. Not enough room to get a clean throw, not unless Blackwall was interested in a close shave.

One of the raiders pressed in on Hawke, too near for her greatsword to have an effective angle. Isabela shoved her heart back down from her throat, trusted Hawke’s combat instincts, and waited for her chance. _Just move a bit to the right, bastard_. He failed to follow her instructions, stepping to the left instead, just in time to catch Hawke’s boot in his groin. He doubled over, then hit the ground as Blackwall’s sword chopped into the back of his head like a cleaver through a ripe melon.

Two left, crammed into the corner and forced to line up like pigs at a paddock gate. Hawke shuffled several steps back to give herself room to swing, and there was Isabela’s shot. Breathe in, step, breathe out and… _throw_.

The knife left her hand as a sword exploded from the pirate’s chest. He stumbled, staring dumbly at the length of steel protruding from his sternum, barely registering the impact of her mistimed throwing knife smacking into his shoulder hilt-first. He jerked forward, collapsing in a heap as the owner of the sword wrenched the blade out. Out, then up, its bloodied point at Hawke’s throat, but that wasn’t a raider holding it—

“Alistair! Stop!”

Isabela’s shout echoed painfully loud in the absence of combat. Alistair—or at least the man she hoped was him—kept his sword raised while he studied her over Hawke’s shoulder. For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then, that same recognition she saw on the pirates flashed across his face, but this was softer, something wistful turning up the inside corners of his brows.

“Isabela?”

The sword dropped to his side, and a collective sigh of relief issued from the living. Isabela smiled and nodded. “The one and only,” she said, giving him a wink, if only for old time’s sake.

It was hard to believe the blood-covered man in front of her was the same blushing boy at the Pearl taking too-long sips of his beer whenever the whores walked their fingertips across his shoulders. He hadn’t joined her table for Wicked Grace, brushing off her invitation with a bashful smile and a wave of his hand. Instead, he chose to sit quietly on his own, occasionally casting a worried glance their way, but nothing more. By the time the game was over and Isabela thought she might try luring him to the captain’s quarters with Leliana and her Warden lover, he was gone. She never did learn his name. But somehow, he had learned hers.

He gestured to Hawke, now leaning heavily on her sword. “Then you must be Hawke. You have excellent timing. Thank you,” he said, then grimaced. “Sorry for the whole ‘sword at your throat’ thing.”

Hawke shrugged. “That used to be a daily occurrence for me. I missed the excitement.”

“I probably should’ve known this wasn’t a great place to hide when I saw that sigil on the door.” He looked back at Isabela. “I hope they weren’t friends of yours.”

Half the corpses on the floor were lying face up. The one with the slit throat, blood coagulating in his beard, used to smuggle slaves for Devon. His mate in red was a rapist, notorious for foregoing gold when he could pillage women instead. Isabela had known their names once, in another life. She chose to wipe them from her mind years ago, that sand-coated, sea-choked morning on the beach she never planned on being alive to see. But faces weren’t so easy to forget.

One of the men still had a name. Jace. He had sailed with her on Siren’s Call before he went and knocked up some tavern wench while on shore leave. When he turned in his resignation, he told her, “I need to be the father I didn’t have.” That was the last she saw of him. And now Jace was dead, his guts spilling out of him in slippery ropes, and there was one more child in Thedas without a father.

Isabela swallowed and looked away. “No,” she answered. “They weren’t.”

“Alistair,” Hawke said, a hint of impatience edging her voice, “if you have information…”

“Right.” Alistair slid his foot away from an encroaching pool of blood. “Do you think we could go outside? I’d prefer not to be surrounded by dead bodies, if you don’t mind.”

They emerged from the cave into merciful daylight. And maybe it _was_ only the appeal of open air, but Isabela could admit there was something beautiful about this part of Ferelden. The Frostbacks towered far to the west, their white caps lost under low-hanging clouds. The bluffs around her were tiny mimics, stacks of moss-colored stones, the occasional fern peeking out from between the crevices. It was quiet; the hills blocked the wind, but a few songbirds made their presence known with tweets and whistles. There was peace here, of a sort—the tentative breaths of a land barely recovered from Blight, anxiously waiting for the next war to strike.

It would come. She saw the rifts in the distance when they skirted south of Crestwood proper. Wisps of green hovering in the sky, shreds of torn Veil fluttering around them, reaching for parts of the mortal realm they were never meant to touch. They were hard to look at for long, like staring into the sun.

Isabela took a seat on a small ridge under a nearby tree to clean her blades. The grass was cool and damp from a recent shower, and she’d likely have a wet spot on her ass by the time she got up, but she didn’t care. After a week’s journey over land, the fight in the cave, and now Alistair about to tell them nothing good, she’d bet her ship on it…

She was exhausted. And surly.

Varric sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. Blackwall remained at the mouth of the cavern. And Hawke paced, too restless to stop, a slight limp marring every step.

Alistair fidgeted, too, shifting his weight from right leg to left, playing with some sort of coin in his hands. He flipped it over and between his knuckles while he explained what he knew of Corypheus. According to the Wardens, the creature that attacked Haven was indeed the same magister locked within the Vinmark fortress. The same magister Hawke and Varric had killed, the same magister Maker knows whoever else had killed Maker knows how many times before. He spoke with a strange mix of admiration and derision for the Grey Wardens, revealing third-hand secrets: the suspicion that Corypheus was blighted, that he had achieved quasi-immortality like an Archdemon. That through the Blight, he forged a connection with the darkspawn, with the Wardens, whispering in their minds, drawing them to their deaths.

Hawke froze, and Isabela’s breath stopped with her.

_Bethany._

“I don’t know if the Calling is real or not, but it doesn’t matter,” Alistair continued, focused on the coin gripped between his fingers. “The whole contingent of Wardens in Orlais thinks they’re going to die, which means no one will be left to stop future Blights. Warden-Commander Clarel had… ideas on what to do about it. I spoke up against those ideas—”

“And now you’re hiding in a pirate cave in the middle of Ferelden,” Varric offered, and Alistair offered a grim smile in affirmation. “Did you hear anything about this?” he asked Blackwall.

Blackwall tapped his fingers against the pommel of his sword and shook his head. “No. Outside of a Blight, we’re spread all over, and I was… even more of a loner than the rest of them.”

“Are all of the Wardens hearing this Calling?” Hawke asked pensively, though Isabela knew her concern was meant for only one Warden in particular.

“As far as I know… yes. I do, at times, and I’m sure you have, too,”—he looked at Blackwall, who nodded—“but I don’t know how far Corypheus’s reach is. It could be that any Grey Wardens north enough of Orlais are safe. I haven’t heard a thing from Weisshaupt, at any rate. Not that I ever do,” he muttered.

A thin veneer of comfort, maybe, but it was all they had. Isabela tossed the bloodied cleaning rag aside and sheathed her daggers. Hawke stood quietly, her eyes closed. Was she praying?

Alistair stared at the Frostbacks, the coin, and his hands, now jammed in his pockets. “Clarel was planning on taking the other Wardens into western Orlais, but—and I’m _sure_ this will come as a surprise—I don’t know where, specifically. Her guards escorted me out before I could glean that little detail.”

Hawke opened her eyes, and there was something determined—angry, almost—in the set of her jaw. “You should go to Skyhold,” she said to Alistair, her words crisp, preemptively denying any argument. “You’ll be safe there, and the Inquisitor will want to hear about this, I’m sure.”

“Believe me, she’s already on her way,” Varric said, hopping off the ridge to his feet. “That woman waits for no one. We can meet up with her at Harding’s base camp.”

But Hawke was shaking her head before Varric could finish his sentence. “You and Blackwall can take Alistair. I want to see Lothering.”

Alistair’s expression softened—a mutual understanding between grieving countrymen, a mirror of what Isabela shared with Dice after the annulment. “You left for Kirkwall during the Blight, didn’t you,” he said gently, waiting for Hawke to incline her head before continuing. “Have you been back since? I’m not so sure you’d want to see it.”

Isabela wasn’t so sure she wanted to see it, either. She had walked with Hawke through the streets and alleys of her own childhood in Llomerryn, through every memory, good and bad. But the island was the same now as when she watched it disappear into the horizon on Luis’s boat to Antiva: a lawless den of miscreants, colorful and dangerous and alive. What was alive in Lothering? Where were Hawke’s memories buried?

“I know.” Hawke glanced at Isabela, searching, hoping for something Isabela couldn’t begin to define, much less give. “But I need to.”


	11. Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their hunt for Alistair successfully concluded, Hawke and Isabela split off from the rest of the group to explore Lothering and Hawke's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few details from the Hawke family's history (particularly Bethany's first experience with magic) have been altered and/or rearranged.

Hawke was still limping. It was a subtle thing, like all of Hawke’s pain, buried by stoicism, but it was there. Her right hip. The same place where, four years ago, she took a nasty blow while helping Isabela deal with Castillon.

A tiny dagger of guilt worked its way between Isabela’s ribs. While _protecting_ her from Castillon, it said with every cut. Hawke had leaped at the chance to be the hero with no questions asked, putting her bruised trust in Isabela’s hands for a harebrained scheme with every reason to fail. It hadn’t, of course. In fact, it worked beautifully. Isabela had the distinct pleasure of watching Castillon die at her feet. She got his ship, his docking rights, his contacts, and not a scratch on her for the trouble. And not a scratch on Hawke, either, except for the one bothering her now, leaving a barely suppressed grimace on her face with every step.

“Your hip is hurting again,” Isabela said.

Hawke didn’t bother denying it. “I think I slipped on a pool of blood back in the cave and jolted it. It’ll be fine,” she said, and Isabela could have finished that sentence herself.

“We should have gone back for the horses. It won’t get any better if you keep putting weight on it.”

They had parted ways with the men at the mouth of the cave, heading south while the others went west to the Inquisition’s camp outside the village. Saoirse might bitch about their late return to Skyhold, but at least she would have Alistair, and wasn’t that why she brought Hawke here in the first place? Let the Inquisitor drag whatever information she could from his pretty little Warden mouth. Let Hawke go home.

Not that Hawke would go. She would see this madness to the end—whatever that end would be.

“Being in the saddle would hurt more than walking.” Hawke cast a sidelong glance at her. “Besides, don’t think I haven’t noticed you massaging your hand.”

Busted. Isabela dropped her hands to her sides. The ache in her knuckles was so commonplace she hardly noticed it anymore; it was a dull background noise, like the sea slapping against the hull after the first day away from shore. Unlike Hawke’s injury, this one lacked a discernible singular cause—Isabela’s fists had cracked across so many jaws and into so many walls her bones were likely shards of glass in her hands, held together with nothing but scar tissue and pigheaded pride.

“Never thought I’d live long enough to feel these things start to catch up with me,” she admitted quietly, that pride briefly faltering.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? You know how many hits I’ve taken over the years? And _this_ is the one that sticks with me. Not even getting stabbed clean through my gut”—Isabela winced—“has troubled me as much as this one.” Hawke glared at her leg for having the audacity to hurt her, then muttered, “Bloody stupid hip."

“The Inquisition must have healers. Promise you’ll see one when we get back?”

“By then it won’t hurt anymore,” Hawke declared, sounding so confident Isabela almost believed her. “But fine. I’ll go see a healer, if it’ll keep you from getting irritated with me.”

“No guarantees, love. I’m easily irritated these days, you know.” A spectacular understatement if ever there was one.

“_These_ days?”

Isabela refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she purposely avoided watching Hawke try to hide her limp and attempted to figure out just how far south they had walked. The land was flatter here, less the rocky peaks and valleys of Crestwood and more of what she had always assumed Ferelden looked like: level fields of grass the color of a bad morning’s piss as far as she could see, the horizon broken only by the occasional tree or the skeleton of an abandoned barn leaning like a drunkard on his fifth round, ready to topple into the dirt at the first strong breeze. There might have been crops here once; the grass was patchy in spots, clustered around sharp stalks of something poking out of the mud, bent and broken and dead. The sky was clear, the early afternoon sun pleasantly, deceptively warm against her face, but Isabela grew more unsettled the farther south they traveled, though she couldn’t understand why. Wasn’t this what Ferelden was supposed to be? Fields and mud?

The Imperial Highway could have taken them to Lothering well enough, Hawke had explained, but it hugged Lake Calenhad before curving back east; if they wanted to be back to Crestwood before dark, a straight shot was best. And besides, the Highway was probably nothing but mages, templars, and those fleeing their spats. The trail Hawke picked was long-unused, but at least it was quiet. Very quiet, actually. The chorus of birdsong following them since Crestwood—chirps, squawks, and hoots, so many sounds Isabela had never heard before—had ceased, its absence deafening when she finally noticed. 

“It’s not supposed to be this quiet, is it?” she asked. Maybe she should have whispered; the eerie silence made her voice feel too large for her mouth, jarring to her own ears.

Hawke shook her head. “It’s not.”

Which had to mean they were getting close.

The last Blight had passed Isabela by like two ships in the night. She heard the rumors in Denerim, of course; they were unavoidable. Hordes of darkspawn in the southern Bannorn, crawling out of the Kocari Wilds and swallowing little backwater towns like Lothering. Even killed the king. It all sounded so ridiculous from where she sat, drowning in ale and sex in Ferelden’s squalid capital. The Pearl, admittedly, had a miraculous way of shutting out the rest of the world. The Archdemon itself could have leveled the rest of the city south of Drakon River and the festivities wouldn’t have paused for more than a moment, just enough time to complain about the ruckus and refill cups. But that was the allure of whorehouses: the efficient exchange of currency for distraction.

In hindsight, there _were_ an awful lot of Fereldans looking for distraction back then. Isabela and her bed never lacked for company.

She had never asked Hawke about her experiences with the Fifth Blight, and Hawke had never offered much of a glimpse on her own. Isabela knew Hawke and her brother Carver were part of the army. She knew Hawke’s lover died in the same battle that killed their king. She knew Hawke and her family fled Lothering when the darkspawn overwhelmed it. And she knew Carver never lived to see the grotesque statues guarding Kirkwall’s harbor. But those were facts, not feelings, and the latter were far harder to pry from Hawke’s granite hold.

Compelled to pull a few out, or perhaps to avoid thinking about the land steadily decaying under her feet, Isabela asked, “Your family moved quite a bit before coming to Lothering, didn’t they?”

“We had to. Stay too long in one place and you risk templars sniffing around. Father could usually hide his magic well enough, but it was harder with Bethany.”

Isabela tried to picture it. Hawke’s father—_Malcolm_, his name was Malcolm—was an ambiguous blur, an amalgam of everything Hawke and Bethany were and Leandra was not. She decided he was tall, maybe a bit on the lanky side. And she’d bet Malcolm had Hawke’s hair: dark and unkempt, Leandra always fussing with it, trying to force it—them—into her aristocratic ideals. He must have had Bethany’s eyes, though: honey-brown and silk-soft, pushed into crescents when he smiled. Did he have a beard? She couldn’t decide. Little Bethany was easier to imagine; she always had a youthful look, even as a Warden. It didn’t take much effort to shrink her down, to widen her eyes and round her face with babyfat, to see sparks and snowflakes fluttering from her tiny fingertips.

Isabela’s chest felt heavy, swirling with grief and borrowed nostalgia. For little Marian, who lost so much, and for little Naishe, who never had such things to lose. Which absence hurt more?

“She was young,” Isabela said lightly, pushing thoughts of her own childhood aside. “Wanted to show off, I bet.”

Hawke chuckled. “On the contrary, actually. When her magic manifested and we had to move to Anwick, she was a wreck. She swore she’d never use it again.” She stared somewhere over the barren fields; a twig or stalk snapped under her heel. “I remember Father had the hardest time convincing her otherwise.”

“Why did you need to move? Couldn’t she just hide it?”

“Not exactly. It was… when she was six, I think. Yes, it had to be, because it was just after my eleventh birthday. She and her friend Ellie were out playing in the garden when a wild dog started chasing them. Evidently that was sufficiently scary enough to bring her magic out.”

In Rivain, manifestation was always cause for celebration. Isabela had never witnessed one herself, but it was a ubiquitous fact of life in a country that respected, even worshiped, magic. Somehow she doubted Fereldans felt the same. “Did she—?”

“She didn’t kill it, just put it to sleep. I was nearby with Carver, so I saw the whole thing. It’s strange—I can still see it all so clearly. I sent Carver to get Father and tried to get Bethany to stop crying. She was wearing this red dress Mother had bought for her, and I remember I was so mad because she’d collapsed in the mud and gotten it completely filthy.”

“Not because that girl Ellie was probably already running for the templars? You were mad because she… ruined her clothes?”

Hawke’s mouth imitated a smile. “It sounds stupid, doesn’t it? I just… I—” Her tone pitched up and her words tumbled over each other, like she was eleven years old again and trying to justify herself to Malcolm and Leandra. “I yelled at her because Mother told her not to get dirty, and I was supposed to be watching to make sure she didn’t. But there she was, in the dirt, and she wouldn’t get up. She kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Even when Father finally got there, that’s all she said.”

Bethany had to have known what it meant. She was clever and conscientious as an adult; it made sense she would’ve been much the same as a child. And Hawke pitching a fit over a dirty dress because she couldn’t bear the truth in the moment—it was curious, the way the past echoed into the future; like Malcolm’s, then Bethany’s magic was a heavy rock cast into a lake, and Hawke and her siblings were formed from the ripples.

“What happened then?”

“Carver and I ran the dog off while Father tried to smooth things over with Ellie. Didn’t take much convincing. ‘Bethy’s too nice to be magic.’ That’s what she said. But my parents apparently didn’t trust the word of a five year old,” Hawke said airily, still bitter over twenty years later. “We packed everything up and were to Anwick by the next week.”

“You weren’t mad at her, were you?” Isabela found she couldn’t stop picturing that poor little girl crying on the ground; it poked at something deep inside her brain, like a pebble stuck in a boot. “It wasn’t her fault people here are so bloody ignorant.”

Hawke let the insult slide. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. It wasn’t easy, you know, having my whole life upended because of something my sister did.”

“She was just a child!” Isabela snapped, though she wasn’t sure if she only meant Bethany or if her outburst was for another little girl caught crying on rain-soaked Rivaini earth, meekly accepting misattributed blame.

“I know that.” Hawke bit her lip and turned away. “But so was I. And it wasn’t like it was just the move that bothered me. After that, things… changed. Mother spent all her time fretting about the templars, even more than she did before, and Father spent all _his_ time with Bethany so she could learn to control her magic. Even after she should have learned the basics. I think he was happy to have a child… like him.”

It was blindingly obvious. “You were jealous.”

Isabela hadn’t considered it before, but it made sense. Beyond their shared propensity to keep their emotions from creeping too far onto their faces, Hawke was nothing like Leandra in temperament, nor did she ever want to be. In contrast, the few times she spoke of Malcolm it was with casual reverence, an admiration Isabela could never conceive of feeling for a parent. Hawke looked up to him. She wanted to be like him. But there was a fundamental part of her father she would never touch: she would always be deaf to the Veil and what lay beyond it. She would never know magic, with all of its trappings and underpinnings, its consequences. Hawke was never forced to hide.

“There’s the windmill, I think,” Hawke said, blatantly ignoring Isabela’s inference. “Do you see it?”

Isabela peered south, putting a hand over her brows to block the glare of the sun. It might have been a tower—she had spotted a few closer to the lake as they walked—except for the scythe-shaped blades spinning lazily at its top. There was no way it was being put to use. Even if anyone yet lived in Lothering, there was nothing left to mill. The shreds of yellow-brown grass under their feet eventually faded to nothing but dusty dirt and rock. Deep grooves cut the earth into a parched patchwork of squares, as if rain couldn’t bear to touch it once in the last decade. Clouds of it stirred around their boots as they walked.

Large pieces of wood jutted up from the ground in the distance, surrounding what might have once been the village proper. Stripped trees? But the branches didn’t look right: too thick, too pale, and their angles from the main trunks were too perfect.

“Is that all that’s left of the outlying farms?” Hawke asked softly, incredulously, and there was Isabela’s answer. Not trees. These were the bones of houses and barns, picked clean by darkspawn vultures.

They approached the closest. Most of the foundation was still intact, the stones sunk deep into the ground with no hope of retrieval unless one wanted to break their back digging them out. But the rest was splinters and soot, a blackened, hollowed-out shell of a quaint home. Only two rooms. Almost the same size as their house in Obera.

Hawke stepped inside, charred wood scraps cracking beneath her weight. She placed her hand on a broken beam—the remains of a doorway, maybe—and closed her eyes. “This was the Dunn’s house, I think. Beckett and Rowena. They had a young daughter; she was barely walking when the Blight started.” Four steps and she was behind the house, standing in a nondescript patch of dirt dotted here and there with anemic stalks. “They grew blackberries here. Carver and I would sneak over with a bucket and try to fill it up before they noticed.”

It was hard to guess which of the siblings would have initiated the heists. Hawke possessed a roguish streak a mile wide, though it had narrowed significantly in the time Isabela had known her, abraded by maturity and duty. Isabela could only imagine how much trouble Hawke stirred up as an adolescent. And Carver… from what Hawke had told her, he couldn’t resist the chance to outperform his elder sister at every opportunity, no matter how rakish. She assumed Carver would wind up shaking half the berries to the ground in his haste to fill the bucket up faster than Hawke.

“And how often were you successful?”

“Very rarely. Eventually, Beckett told us we could just take as much as we wanted during the day because he was sick of us waking him up in the middle of the night. Wasn’t as fun after that.” Hawke’s brow knitted. “I hope they’re all right.”

Stems crumbled to dust as Isabela joined her in the ghostly remains of the blackberry patch. Her hands found Hawke’s arm, wrapping around the crook of her elbow, squeezing gently. “Are you sure you want to see the rest?” she asked, an echo of Alistair’s earlier words. She’d had her fill of it already. The emptiness, the lingering pain of Lothering clinging to this dead, ashen land made her skin prickle with dread. “I can’t imagine it’s going to get any better.”

Hawke answered immediately. “Yes. There are good memories here, even if…” She gestured around them, though an explanation was hardly necessary. “Even if it’s hard to see,” she finished; Isabela caught the double-meaning.

Without waiting for Isabela’s response, Hawke skirted around the stones of the Dunn’s cadaver of a house toward the windmill. Isabela followed, cutting through the middle of one of the rooms, trying not to wonder if it used to be a bedroom or a kitchen. Something crunched under her foot. She almost didn’t stop. She shouldn’t have stopped; it was just another piece of timber, or some other debris—it had to be, but something pulled her gaze to the ground regardless. Her breath exploded from her lungs in a strangled gasp.

A skull. A tiny skull, yellow-white beneath gray smears of soot, its left eye socket cracked open like a dropped egg.


End file.
